Me Thinks I Hear a Banjo
by PokeyDotes
Summary: Militiamen, blizzards, and violent old ladies. All in a day's work, right?
1. Temper Tantrums and Ninja Turtles

_A/N: So, as with all my stories, this one has already been planned out, it just needs to be written. For those of you who have read any of my other stories for this fandom, you know that I have a more than obvious tendency to focus on Deeks and am a true-blue Densi shipper. That hasn't changed, just keep in mind I like to keep things as close to canon as possible, allowing for a little creative licensing every so often, i.e. there will be flirting, banter, and caring for partners, but nothing that wouldn't be in the show. I save all of that for one shots that inevitably end up two shots._

_For__ some reason, my mind as twisted and is wanting to focus on Callen. This story will be centered around Deeks (because my mind won't work any other way) but will feature a good bit of Callen, and by extension, Kensi and Sam. Unlike my other team-fics, Hetty, Eric, and Nell won't be present as much, if any. For some reason, I like putting the team in weird places outside their comfort zone. I love LA, but I thought 'why not Montana?'_

_Just a little warning, there will probably be some language (not much) and some gore, because I'm weird that way. _

* * *

Chapter 1: Temper Tantrums and Ninja Turtles

The sudden gust of cold air draws Clive's attention from the small TV. He barely registers the tiny, metallic chime of the bell as the door slowly closes, the wind and angry mumbling drowning out the normally annoying clanging. Clive watches the man shake the snow from his hat, kick the ice from his boots before wrapping his arms tightly around his center as he looks around. _This guy's lost_. Clive can tell, anyone who lives here is used to the cold, they wouldn't be shaking like a freakin' Chihuahua. Hell, this guy's practically _vibrating_, he's shaking so much.

When the guy reaches a gloved hand towards one of the small, shopping baskets, Clive lets his attention go back to Wheel of Fortune, or at least what he can make out through the static. Stupid satellite goes out anytime the wind blows, which means the near blizzard outside has caused him to resort to classics. Nothing like a nice set of rabbit ears to keep you entertained—that and a near freezing city-boy fumbling for supplies.

The guy's got to be at least six feet tall, a hell of a lot taller than Clive. Young, too. Probably early thirties? The guy hasn't looked at him yet, but Clive can tell the kid's probably a looker, making him glad he told Lindsey to stay home tonight. He love's his daughter, but the seventeen year old is drawn to the opposite sex like a moth to a flame. She also has a tendency to forget she's still a minor. Clive tries to ignore his oldest son's attempt at brotherly love by endearing his sister with the nickname Jailbait.

"Excuse me?" The guy says, his accent unrecognizable. _Yep, definitely not from around here. _"You got any batteries?"

Clive gestures towards the wall behind him with his thumb. "Keep 'em behind the counter. Kids like to steal 'em." The guy nods as he walks up to the counter and starts unloading his overflowing basket.

Two travel-sized first-aid kits, two bottles of Nyquil and other cold medicines, four flashlights, two bottles of transmission fluid, several magazines, books of word puzzles, a deck of cards, and a large variety of junk food, complete with the entire shelf's supply of Twinkies.

"I'm gonna need eight of your nine volts, please." The guy smiles, blue eyes shining, and Clive takes a moment to silently thank God he told Lindsey to stay home tonight. Those blue eyes would be a blazing bon-fire to his little moth.

"You like Twinkies?" Clive asks, ringing up the batteries. The guy laughs and scratches at the hat on his head, causing a few blond curls to fall loose.

"Not really, but a friend of mine does. She's kind of down, thought I'd cheer her up." The guy lets his shoulder rise and fall in a nonchalant shrug. He's flexing his fingers, trying to warm them up, and Clive can still make out a few involuntary shivers.

"You're not from around here, are you boy?" The guy just looks at him, smiling that smile without missing a beat, making Clive glad he had three sons—one daughter is more than enough to worry about.

"No, sir. Just passing through." The guy doesn't offer any more information, just patiently waits for Clive to finish ringing up his items. When Clive reaches across the counter, grabbing two small, orange packets, the guy frowns, arching a questioning eyebrow.

"They're hand warmers. Shake 'em and put 'em in your gloves. Trust me, you'll thank me." Clive tosses them in the bag, not even bothering to ring them up, but stops when the guy reaches for the whole box.

There's that smile again, "I'll pay for these." Clive just laughs as he rings up the many hand warmers, adding them to the two already in the bag.

"You be careful, Son. They'll be closing the roads soon." Clive offers a wave with his warning as the guy pulls his coat up around his nose before pulling the door open and letting in another gust of cold air.

Deeks manages to nod his thanks before turning to face the relentless wind. He's parked right outside the door, the only vehicle in the parking lot. He climbs behind the wheel and tosses the bags into the passenger seat, hurriedly searching for a pair of the hand warmers.

Reading the instructions, he rips one of the packages open with his teeth and begins shaking the small pouch. He immediately feels the warmth, it's not much, but it's more than welcomed in this frozen hell in which he currently finds himself. It doesn't snow in Los Angeles.

He sticks the steadily warming hand warmer in his glove against the back of his hand and readies a second as he waits for the truck to warm up. Within minutes, he's putting the truck in gear and slowly pulling out of the parking lot, clenching his teeth to keep the shivering from cracking a tooth. It doesn't snow in Los Angeles, but it's a freaking blizzard in Montana.

"I should kill them when I get back," Deeks says to no one, his warm breath fogging up the windshield a moment after the words are spoken. "They deserve it. Probably won't be expecting me to make it back. I mean, look at this," he gestures to the non-visible road, No One making a silent, but attentive audience. "Getting out in this weather is the equivalent of a kamikaze mission. There's no way they're expecting me to survive."

He turns on the radio, letting whatever song play as background noise. He doesn't really listen to it; he just wants something to take his mind off the dangerously slick road and the fact that he can't see more than five feet in either direction. Damn, he wishes he were back in LA. He only _thought_ he wanted a white Christmas. He was wrong, he's man enough to admit it.

The remainder of the drive is quiet. There aren't any other cars on the road, and Deeks silently thinks it's for the better—one less thing he has to worry about hitting. Twice now, he's already swerved, the tail end of the truck threatening to fishtail every time he presses the breaks. The fluorescent paint of the guardrails is the only thing keeping him on the road as he slowly creeps towards the cutoff leading towards their temporary home.

They have no idea how long they'll be there, Callen hadn't been able to give them any information. One minute, Deeks is sitting in a sun-soaked chair, his feet propped against his desk as he fights off a nap, and the next Hetty is telling them to pack for cold weather, telling them to keep receipts to be reimbursed for any supplies they may have to buy.

Deeks isn't used to the snow, he's always lived in LA. Sunshine and an occasionally stifling dry heat. That's what he's used to, not blizzards and worrying about a freaking yeti.

He sighs with relief when he parks the truck in front of the large house. It's nice, one story, wide and open. There's a barn out back, complete with stalls and hay, there's even a silo on the edge of the property—a regular Greene Acres. Deeks has no idea how Hetty came to acquire it to be used as a temporary headquarters for NCIS, but it's better than sleeping in a tent.

Once, when Deeks was still in grade school, his class went on a field trip to a cattle ranch. That was the one and only time he had been on a farm. Until now anyway. They're in farm country. All the land outside of town is privately owned, each family claiming several acres and putting them all to use.

Deeks knows that if the snow weren't so thick, he'd be able to see the lights from a neighboring farm to the east. When they first arrived, it was obvious that whoever lived there before had kids, the second bedroom was decked out for two little boys.

The set of wooden bunk beds was pushed against the wall, complete with Ninja Turtle bedspreads and a Power Ranger nightlight. Toy cars and parts of mangled action figures were littered across the floor, covering an area rug displaying bright geometric shapes with smiling faces.

Sam had already claimed the master bedroom for himself, taking no prisoners when pulling the _I'm-the-Senior-Agent-therefore-I-get-my-own-bathroom_ card, trumping Kensi's _I'm-a-girl _card.

Deeks hadn't even had a chance to call top bunk before Kensi was telling him to help her separate the beds. Instead of arguing, he had grudgingly helped lift the top bunk and rearrange the room, quickly calling dibs on the Michelangelo covered bed.

Kensi had smiled, saying in a falsely sweet voice, "Fine. He suits you more."

"If you mean because he's awesome, then yeah, he does," Deeks had shot back as he kicked toys out of the way.

It's been three days since then, and already Deeks is ready to go home. He isn't against the snow, hell he even likes it sometimes. But a blizzard isn't snow. It's a tsunami of ice that blinds anyone dumb enough to venture out. The idea of spending any large amount of time in a snow-blanketed farmhouse, sipping hot chocolate by the fire had never really been on the top of Deeks' to-do list. A cabin in the mountains, maybe. Farmhouse at good old Greene Acres, no. On occasion he'll go to a resort, spend a few days on the mountain with a snowboard, a few nights by the fire in a comfy bed, preferably not alone. There was that one year he spent Christmas with a girl at her family's cabin in Colorado, that hadn't been that bad. Of course, the cabin came with automatic heat, there wasn't a freaking blizzard, and she had done a good job of distracting him from the fact that it was freezing outside—shared body heat will do that.

While this house comes with a thermostat, it's old and obviously on its last leg. But to make up for the lack of electrical heat, the house also comes with a large fireplace. It sucks, because the fire only warms the main room, leaving the antiquated central heat to warm the bedrooms.

Another downside Deeks is all too aware of, is this house doesn't come with a more than friendly co-ed wanting to teach him the finer points of college life. It does however come with a former Navy Seal who is too worried about his partner to bother being nice, and an irritated Kensi Blye who's suffering from a bad case of Cabin Fever.

Deeks slams the truck door shut before running towards the porch, a task made all the more difficult by the ever-deepening snow. He kicks the front door shut behind him as he moves to set the bags on the counter.

"It's about time. We were starting to worry you wrecked or something," Kensi says from the couch, the dishcloth she had been clutching when Deeks left still held tightly in her hand. "What took you so long?"

Deeks stops unloading the bags long enough to level her with a stare that screams _are you kidding me_. "Well, Partner. In case you haven't noticed, we're in a freaking snow globe, and Mother Nature just decided to turn it upside down." He tosses his gloves and hat on a chair before working to remove his outer coat. "I hope you're aware that I just risked my life for you."

When Kensi looks as though she's about to argue, Deeks hurriedly reaches in the last bag and holds up one of the Twinkies, effectively cutting off whatever she had been about to say.

"Thank you," she says, reaching out and snagging the Twinkie with her right hand, the hand not holding the bloodied dishtowel.

Deeks just grins as he picks up the bag and empties the rest of the Twinkies onto the counter. He's almost certain if Kensi were any other woman, she'd have kissed him. But Kensi being Kensi, she punches him in the shoulder before stuffing half of the now opened Twinkie into her mouth.

"You're welcome," he tells her as he works to pull the plastic wrap off one of the first-aid kits. "But just so you know, physical abuse isn't how most people show appreciation." Kensi rolls her eyes as she reaches for a second Twinkie.

They have enough food to last them at least another week, none of it being junk food. The pantry's stocked full of rice and pasta, cans of various vegetables, and a bag of potatoes. Not to mention the freezer with a few nights worth of pork chops, chicken breasts, and one pack of hamburger meat.

Deeks and Kensi have both been more than happy to leave the cooking to Sam, who seems to need the activity to keep his mind off of the fact that his partner is undercover with an increasingly aggressive militia group with no way of contacting them outside the use of a burn phone.

Callen's supposed to check in each day, sending a quick text to let them know he's okay, calling only when something big is happening. The last time he called, the militia was sending him and a few others to meet up with a separate group in Montana.

With each passing day, Sam grows more irritable, lashing out at every 'annoying' thing Deeks does, or quickly pointing out when Kensi's being unreasonable. Having no TV or obvious source of entertainment, Deeks and Kensi had quickly discovered that cooking acted as an outlet for Sam's growing frustration.

Turns out, Sam's an excellent cook, making it a win-win situation. However, Deeks couldn't help noticing that Kensi was starting to go stir crazy, her mood worsening with each sugarless meal, prompting the Twinkie splurge as well as a separate arsenal of fatty treats to be shared amongst the three amigos.

"Where's Sam?" Deeks asks as he picks up the first-aid kit and gestures to the living room, wanting to get closer to the fire.

"Right here." Sam emerges from his bedroom pulling a sweatshirt over his head, a dimpled smile on his face as he walks into the kitchen. Deeks can tell from the relaxed and some-what cheerful mood that Callen's already sent a text, but he asks anyway.

"Callen check in?"

Sam nods as he stirs a pot on the stove, "They're laying low until the storm passes."

Deeks nods, tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose when he feels a sneeze coming on. "You know it's better if you just let it out," Kensi tells him, patiently waiting with her hand in her lap.

Deeks just shakes his head, turning away when the sneeze inevitably breaks through.

"Did you buy any medicine?" Sam asks, reaching for the kit in Deeks' hand.

"Yeah."

"Did you take any?" Sam opens the kit, pulling out the necessary supplies before gesturing for Kensi to give him her hand.

Deeks rubs at his tired eyes, hating the way he feels when he's sick. "Not yet," he answers, watching as Sam removes the bloodied hand towel, revealing a nasty looking cut along Kensi's left palm. "I was gonna do that." He gestures to the wound, feeling a small sense of pride when he doesn't hear any trace of a whine in his voice. Of course, it's probably hidden by the oncoming cold.

Sam doesn't look up from cleaning the cut. "If you want to play doctor so bad, why don't you go take some of the damn medicine, cause I swear, if I so much as get the sniffles, I'm blaming it on your contagious ass."

"Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming, Sam. I think I might cry." Deeks sees the grin on Sam's face as he makes his way back to the kitchen, peeking in the pot to see the makings of a promising looking potato soup.

"Don't eat any of my Twinkies," Kensi calls to Deeks as Sam covers the cut with Neosporin before wrapping it in gauze.

"You were absent on the day they taught sharing in kindergarten, weren't you?" he calls back, holding up a small bag of chips, showing her he has no interest in her precious Twinkies.

"You do know I'm cooking, right?" Sam frowns at the large pile of junk food covering the counter as he tosses the bloodied dishtowel in the garbage.

"I'm aware." Deeks opens the bag of chips anyway, smiling when Sam continues to frown. "Isn't that what started my whole quest out into the great white abyss?"

"No, Kensi slicing her hand open like a rookie can be blamed for that." Sam lets his frown morph into a smile when Kensi tosses one of the couch's throw pillows at him.

"It's not like I peel potatoes all the time, it was an accident." Her voice is indignant and somewhat embarrassed.

"Kens, you personally have one of the biggest knife collections I've ever seen. You actually know like a thousand different ways to kill a guy with a butter knife, yet you slice your hand open peeling potatoes." Deeks shakes his head in mock disappointment, reaching into the bag for another chip. "You're slipping Agent Blye."

"Shut up and take your medicine," she says, slamming the unopened bottle of Nyquil into his chest.

They spend the rest of the evening putting away the supplies Deeks had bought, enjoying hot potato soup, and working on crosswords. Eventually, Deeks' medicine kicks in, and he falls asleep listening to the sound of the storm raging outside the window as he snuggles deeper into the cocoon of blankets and pillows, the outline of a Power Ranger nightlight glowing from across the room.

-:-

Deeks isn't a heavy sleeper, or at least he doesn't think he is. Admittedly, there are times when someone has to say his name more than once to get his attention, maybe even shake his shoulder once or twice just for good measure. But yeah, not a heavy sleeper.

Of course, he's normally not doped to the gills on Nyquil. At some point between fighting over the last bag of Cheetos and falling face first onto the Ninja Turtle comforter, Deeks had decided to write a strongly worded letter to the makers of Nyquil, requesting that they add "leaving you with no choice but to be horizontal" to their little slogan. Maybe between 'sneezing' and 'the best sleep you ever got with a cold'. That would do.

He feels the side of his mattress dip, but truthfully, he's too tired to care. He's fully aware that he's in a farmhouse in the middle of Bumfuck, Montana with Kensi and Sam standing guard somewhere nearby, most likely bickering over whose turn it is to do the dishes. He's perfectly happy staying where he is, face first in cotton-polyester blended sheets.

At least until Kensi decides to stick her freezing hands to his forehead.

Deeks slowly opens one eye, surprised to find the only light in the room coming from the window and the full moon outside, although the thick snow only allows a little light to filter through.

"What are you doing?" he asks, turning away from her cold hand.

"You have a fever," she says, a hint of concern prevalent in her voice. Deeks shakes his head and closes his eyes again.

"I'm sick and your hands are ice cubes," he counters, already halfway back to sleep. Instead of leaving him to rest, she shakes his shoulder, forcing him to open both eyes and face her.

"The power's out. We need to move into the living room to keep warm," she explains, and Deeks suddenly realizes that the Power Ranger light has gone dark, and that his toes are cold.

"_Or…" _he begins in that slow tone, the one that tells Kensi she should just go ahead and roll her eyes before he even begins. "I could scoot over and we could keep each other warm."

Cue eye roll, followed by a barely hidden smile. "Nah, I think I'm gonna lie by the fire, but if you want, I could get Sam to come keep you warm. You know, if you're dead set on cuddling."

"Living room it is," Deeks says, pushing up and grabbing his pillows and comforter. Though she's walking ahead of him, he knows she's probably smiling, most likely that smug _I won_ smile.

Sam's already got the large queen-sized mattress from his room laid out on the floor in front of the fireplace. He's placing another log in the fire when Kensi and Deeks enter the room.

"Who gets the couch?" Sam asks. He's wearing a toboggan to help keep his head warm, his phone's visible in the pocket of his sweat pants, always within distance should Callen need him.

"If you're actually gonna give us a choice in the matter," Kensi says, still a little upset over the loss of the private bathroom, "Then I say we play a game or something. Make it fair."

"Or, we can let the contagious sick guy with a fever have the couch," Deeks speaks up, looking very much like an overgrown child with his Ninja Turtle pillows in one hand, the comforter dragging the floor behind him, his hair a mess of sleep raddled curls. Just to emphasize his point, he throws in a very wet sounding sniffle.

Sam shakes his head, smiling ruefully as he stands from the hearth. "You're shameless, Deeks."

"Not shameless, crafty," Deeks corrects with a smile of his own.

"I was thinking something more along the lines of rock, paper, scissors," Kensi says, gaining both men's attention.

Deeks inhales deeply, feeling the rattle in his lungs as he does so. He holds it for a long, dramatic moment before releasing it in one quick huff of air. "Alright," he says, dropping the pillows and blanket on to the end of the couch.

Kensi smiles and tilts her head as Sam shakes his once again. "I swear, my kids are more mature than you two," he mutters as he raises his hands, one fist lying on an opened palm.

It's Deeks' turn to smile as he mirrors Sam's position. "And yet, you agree to play."

Sam just ignores him as Kensi begins to count off.

"Rock, paper, scissors, go!" she says, and all three of them put a little more enthusiasm into their reveal than any of them would like to admit.

Deeks just moans as both Sam and Kensi's rocks crush his lone scissors. Retrieving his pillows and comforter, he claims the side of the mattress closest to the fireplace, leaving his comrades to battle it out for the couch.

He's too busy spreading out the comforter to see, but judging by Kensi's triumphant 'yes!' and Sam's irritated yet determined "best two out of three," Deeks figures he's bunking with Sam.

"No way, Sam," Kensi says, already walking away, flashlight in hand as she leaves to retrieve her own pillow and blanket. "You lost, fair and square."

"Come on, Kensi. Two outta three, lets go." Sam is anything if not relentless.

"Is that how your kids play, Sam?" Deeks asks tauntingly from beneath the covers.

"Shut up, Deeks," Sam says with a defeated look in Kensi's direction. Deeks knows better than to laugh, that or he's really just too tired to put forth the necessary effort.

He's asleep before the others get settled.

-:-

It's been said once before, but reiteration never hurt anybody. Deeks isn't a heavy sleeper, or at least he doesn't think he is. Although, unlike before when he was awoken by a pushy woman and her cold hands, this times a bit more annoying and somewhat alarming all at the same time.

It's the sound of a generic ringtone, a little bell sounding through the silence that wakes him this time around. Deeks opens his eyes, but remains still as he feels Sam shift beside him, undoubtedly reaching for the phone.

"G, you okay?" Sam asks, no trace of sleep in his worried voice. Now, Deeks sits up. Callen's supposed to text, he only calls when something big is about to go down or he's in trouble. Last Deeks heard, the militia was laying low until the storm passed, and judging by the mournful whine of the wind outside, the storm's deciding to stick around, which leaves…

"Where are you?" Sam's already standing, searching the dark room for a flashlight. Kensi's sitting up, the thick blanket pooled around her hips as she watches Sam, waiting for word as to what's going on, what it is she should be doing.

"Hang tight, we're on our way." Sam hangs up the phone, and grabs the flashlight from the coffee table. He's already halfway to his bedroom before he decides to let Kensi and Deeks in on what's just happened.

"That was G. He's in trouble, we got to go."

And that's all it takes. Deeks and Kensi are both up, and dressed. Pajama tops hidden beneath heavy coats, laces tucked into boots as they grab their guns and follow Sam out into the snow and the still raging blizzard.

It doesn't matter that Mother Nature's throwing a temper tantrum, Callen's waiting.

TBC...


	2. There and Back Again

_A/N: An absurdly huge 'thank you' to everyone who has reviewed so far. Double-digits always make me smile. Every time my phone would chime, I would smile and think "If I hurry with chapter two, maybe they'll review more?!" It was crazy. _

_That being said, I do not write these stories to give my own political view or to bash someone else's. I simply needed a back-story for our bad guys, and like all bad guys, they had to have a motive. It does not mean that I either agree or disagree. I know there are some things politically and emotionally that cause a lot of strife, and everyone is welcome to their opinion concerning gun laws and what not, just please don't share them with me and I won't share mine with you. Just keep that in mind as you read. This story is not intended to offend anyone for any reason._

_Also, this chapter is mostly about laying groundwork, something all stories need but I usually don't find thrilling. I'm thinking there are probably going to be about 7 chapters total for this thing, give or take. I'm so excited about the action parts though…I can't wait to write them!_

Chapter 2: There and Back Again: A Bearded Man's Tale

He'll admit it, there have been times when he's been accused of being impatient. Most times, Sam's the culprit, tossing the insinuation in amongst complaints about his cholesterol or questionable love affair with bacon. But right now, Callen thinks even Sam would cut him some slack as he once again glances outside.

He's standing in an old tack room, dry rotted bridles and rusted bits hang from the wall from even rustier nails, each occasionally swaying as the strong wind blows through the cracks in the barn's wall. He wouldn't go so far as to say he's _hiding_, but he definitely doesn't want to be seen, at least not by anyone other than his team.

Militiamen aren't exactly known for their warm, welcoming, friendly demeanors. It had taken him three months to get in with the sect in lower California, and he was more than a little pissed when less than two weeks in, he and four others were shipped off to Montana. Apparently, the head honcho back home is old buddies with the big shot here in Montana. So, when Montana called needing a favor, California was more than happy to send five of his greenest members.

He had wanted to say no, wanted to keep working the sect in California, but both Hetty and the director agreed that it would be too risky to refuse and that too much effort had already been spent to back out now.

And that's exactly what would have happened. He would have been forced to back out, because once you're in the militia, you can't simply refuse to follow an order. And when the militia says jump, well you better have your bouncy shoes on.

Another strong gust of wind and another peek outside later, Callen's starting to feel that little bit of impatience morph into something stronger. He's freezing, he can't keep from shivering, and he's pretty certain his teeth are about to rattle right out of his head if he can't stop them from chattering. The farmhouse Hetty had borrowed is about a fifteen minute drive from where he is now, factor in the weather maybe half an hour.

Looking at the phone in his hand, he can see it's been about thirty-three minutes since he last called Sam, forty-two since he made his escape.

There are thirty-seven members of the militia here in this small town, thirty-eight if you count Callen's alias, Greg. He had been given orders from NCIS to figure out exactly what it is Montana wanted with a handful of Cali boys, and that is exactly what he did.

Normally, the lower ranking members are relegated to tents around the property, but when the weather radio called for the storm, the leaders figured it'd be in the militia's best interest if it's members weren't frozen and buried beneath twelve inches of snow.

And that's how Callen had gotten inside, how he had found the well-used five-star notebook. It was as he was reading it that he was caught. Tattle-tales must get awarded in the militia, because no sooner had the man walked in and caught sight of Callen holding the notebook, did he start screaming his head off, alerting the others to Callen's sticky fingers and prying eyes.

And now, forty-three minutes later at about five in the morning, Callen's hiding next to a smelly old saddle, waiting for his knights in Chevy plated armor to come to his rescue.

His gun is in his holster, right on his hip. Militiamen aren't shy about carrying weapons, and tucking it in the waistband of your jeans just wasn't going to cut it, ergo the need for a holster and a nice, shiny, _American_ made gun. It's not his SIG, but it'll do, especially if any of the bearded militiamen decide to venture out into the storm and see where he ran off.

He reaches up with frozen fingers, his gloves doing no good to keep out the cold, and scratches at his chin. He can't remember the last time he saw a razor, and admittedly, a beard's a good idea for extra warmth in wintry Montana, but the little hairs are driving him crazy. They itch all along the length of his jaw, his neck. He looks like a full-blown mountain man in the making.

The sound of movement outside catches his attention. Gloved fingers reach for the Smith & Wesson at his side as he ventures a peek through one of the barn wall's many cracks. Sighing in relief, Callen knocks once on the wall before calling out.

"Sam," he says, only loud enough to be heard over the wind. Sam's eyes immediately focus on the small gap, his dark eyes meeting stark blue. Sam makes his way to the door, gladly stepping inside the small barn to get out of the wind, Deeks two steps behind him, his eyes looking towards the distant house for any sign that they've been seen.

"Where's Kensi?" Callen asks, noting the absence of his third teammate.

"She's with the truck," Deeks answers, putting his gun away and reaching into his pocket for a couple of fluorescent orange packages. Callen would be lying if he said he didn't think they were condoms at first sight.

He watches as Deeks tears the packets open with his teeth, dropping two little pouches into his hand that look a lot like teabags, and begins to shake them vigorously. Callen knows what they are now, it's just been a while since he had any need for one.

He graciously accepts the small hand warmers, immediately removing his gloves and letting his frozen fingers absorb the warmth.

"Deeks, don't take this the wrong way, but I love you man." Callen would grin if he weren't so cold. Instead, he places the warmers next to his cheeks, not realizing just how cold he had been until he was offered some warmth.

"Most people do," Deeks responds with a smile, his eyes once again darting in the direction of the house.

"So, are your feet frozen to the ground or something, 'cause I'm getting cold and would like to get back to the truck." Sam gestures to the barn door, one lone dimple shining at the incredulous look his partner gives him.

"_You're_ cold? Sam, I've been waiting here for over half an hour. I can't even feel my feet anymore." Callen knows he'd probably sound a little angrier, probably look a little more intimidating if he weren't trying to suck the heat from thermodynamic teabags.

"Sorry, G. I forgot how sensitive you are," Sam says, knowing full well that he's baiting his partner. It's what they do, it's what makes them Sam and Callen.

"Okay, now I get it," Callen mutters, tilting his head back as though he's just solved an annoying puzzle. "The cold's messing with your head. See, I'm not the sensitive one, Sam. You are."

"You don't hear me complaining about a little frostbite," Sam challenges, adjusting his toboggan.

"No, you're just whining about wanting to get into a warm truck." Callen's pulling his gloves back on, tucking the hand warmers inside as he once again reaches for his gun.

"Look guys," Deeks intervenes, "I hate to break up the bromance, but it might be a good idea to get a move on before the Hill Billy Brigade comes looking for us."

Guns drawn and ready, the three men exit the barn, their heads ducked to help block the stinging wind as they make their way back to the truck.

They figure since they can't see the house too well, anyone in the house can't see them. It's only a theory, but it's that or stay in the barn.

The truck is running, the heater on full blast with Kensi waiting behind the wheel. No one says anything at first, each content with getting out of the wind and getting away from the militia's headquarters.

Kensi drives slow, her hands at ten and two as the wind threatens to push the truck off the road. And then, almost as though Mother Nature had finally run out of steam, the wind dies down, that angry howl softening into a whisper, still sending tufts of snow across the windshield, but nothing more.

Suddenly, the silence in the truck is too loud, the sound of the diesel engine thunderous against the absence of the wind. It's a few seconds before anyone makes a sound. It's kind of like they're too scared to break the silence, too scared that their voices will wake Big Momma up again and the wind will return.

But Deeks is sick, and that little tickle in his sinuses that he's been fighting on and off since making it to the barn has finally won out. He pinches his nose, squeezes his eyes, and sneezes. Loudly.

Kensi jumps a little at the sudden noise, Sam smirks, and Callen just looks at Deeks, offering a neutral "gesundheit."

"Thanks," Deeks replies, that wet sniffle making a comeback. "I kind of got a little cold."

"You don't say," and now Callen smiles. The silence broken, Callen begins to explain what he found, what it is he had read in the notebook before being caught, and why he wasn't too keen on sticking around and explaining why he was snooping.

"It's a bombing and a set up. That's why they brought in people from out of town," he begins, a little bit of anger leaking into his voice. "Me and the other four men from California are scapegoats."

"What are they planning to bomb?" Sam asks, his voice sounding just as angry as his partners.

"The state capital, I think. There were notes and diagrams. They were doing the math, trying to determine where in the building the bomb would do the most damage," Callen says as he reaches in his gloves and adjusts the hand warmers.

"How do you know you're the scapegoats?" Kensi keeps her eyes on the road, the fresh snow still making it hazardous to drive.

Callen laughs a little, a full on scoff. "Because I read it. They had our names written down, well my alias' name. I didn't read a whole lot, but I'm pretty sure the plan was for us to be in the building when the bomb goes off."

"That's why they wanted people from out of town. Someone who couldn't be traced back to them," Deeks adds, putting the puzzle pieces together.

"And that's why the leader in California sent all of his newest members," Sam says, picking up where Deeks left off, "You weren't there long enough to be connected. They're gonna make you out to be homegrown terrorists."

"When's all this supposed to happen?" Kensi asks, hoping like crazy someone had written a time and date in the notebook.

Callen shakes his head, apparently reading what Kensi's thinking and sharing in her disappointment. "No idea," he says as he reaches for his burn phone. He needs to call Eric, get him and Nell to see if they can find any reason why the militia would want to blow up the capital building. They militia's known for hating the government, but they're not terrorists.

"You might want to wait 'till we get back to the house," Sam says when he sees the phone. "This whole road's nothing but a dead zone."

Sighing, Callen puts the phone away. It's probably for the best anyway, with the time difference, it's probably only three in the morning in LA.

They listen to the snow crunching beneath the tires as they pull up to the house. As they climb out of the truck, Deeks looks around, studying the scenery. Except for one or two, there are no trees, not for miles. The entire landscape is blanketed in snow, soft tufts still falling in a slow decent. _This_ is the type of snow Deeks likes.

"Ninja Turtles? Really?" Callen asks questioningly as he walks into the dark house, his flashlight shining on the rumpled mattress and abandoned pillows.

"Heroes in a half shell, and don't pretend like you weren't a fan," Deeks warns with a barely suppressed grin. "I bet Leo was your favorite."

Callen doesn't deny it, he simply turns away and laughs, shining the light on the small pile of kindling so Sam can get the fire going again.

"Sam's was probably Raphael," Deeks says, continuing his Ninja Turtle profiling. This time, Callen's laugh is a little more pronounced, especially when Sam turns and looks at Deeks.

"And why's that Deeks?" Sam asks somewhat angrily with just enough mirth to keep it friendly.

"Well, because he's always so angry, and serious, and …well…you know." Deeks grins sheepishly, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with Sam, because once again, he's stuck his foot in his mouth.

"Are you saying I have anger issues?" Sam asks, his tone unchanging. Deeks looks as though he's about to defend himself, or at least try to, but Callen steps in, choosing to rile Sam instead of leaving Deeks to flounder.

"I can see it," he says, nodding slowly as both Sam and Deeks look at him in surprise.

"I do not have anger issues," Sam says, tossing the last log on the fire with enough force to lend doubt to his claim. Callen and Deeks share a look, before Sam stands and points accusingly at his partner. "And what happened to the whole 'it's always us against him' thing?"

"It's still in play," Callen assures him, turning off the flashlight as the fire grows, the sunrise lending light to a grey sky. "It's just you have to admit, of the four turtles, you are most like the red one."

"So would that make me Donatello?" Kensi asks, smiling at the turn in conversation.

"No, Eric's totally Donatello," Deeks tells her as he opens the remaining curtains, allowing more light into the room.

"What? What about me?" Kensi looks as though she's actually a little bit offended, only making the situation that more amusing.

"Well, you're a girl," Deeks says as though it's obvious.

Sam and Callen smile, each content sitting back and watching as Kensi cocks her hip and crosses her arms, her eyebrows rising in contempt. "So I can't be a Ninja Turtle just because I'm a woman?"

"Are we really having this argument right now?" Deeks asks, holding his hands palms up, looking like he's waiting for someone to hand him an answer. Kensi seems to come to her senses, realizing just how ridiculous the conversation truly is.

Still a little on the defensive, she keeps her arms crossed as she sits on the armrest of the couch. "You're the one who brought it up."

Deeks seems satisfied and sits on the opposite arm rest, kicking off his shoes and placing his thick sock covered feet on the far cushion of the couch.

Callen begins to remove his gloves and hat, flexing his stiff fingers within reach of the warming fire. "Hetty is definitely Splinter."

"Hetty's a woman, she can't be Splinter if we're playing by your rules," Kensi points out once she sees Deeks smile and nod in agreement with Callen's assessment.

Deeks tilts his head and gives Kensi a look more serious than the question deserves. "Kensi, can you think of anyone else that's better fit to be Splinter?"

Kensi stares at him, her lips pursed as she thinks it over. Finally, she rolls her eyes, admitting defeat.

"Fine, Hetty can be Splinter."

-:-

To Eric's credit, he doesn't complain when Callen calls and wakes him at almost four in the morning. He simply gets to work, searching for anything and everything that would warrant the militia bombing the capital building in Montana.

Within no time at all, he's calling back, giving them a short list of events that are scheduled to take place over the next month in Helena. At the top of the list, a fundraiser benefiting the Governor's campaign.

Normally, the fundraiser wouldn't jump out were it not for the fact that the Governor had recently began supporting legislation to toughen gun laws in Montana, something he had inherently steered clear of during elections.

Governor Dempsey is the type of politician to avoid controversial topics unless he knows for certain the majority will support him. During elections, it was clear the militia wouldn't have been happy should the government try to intervene on their way of life and their love for ammunitions. However, with several gun related crimes grabbing the media's attention, leaving citizens up in arms (so to speak) about firearm legislation in the great state of Montana, Governor Dempsey felt it was necessary to pick a side, preferably one that was in the majority's favor.

"It's an assassination. It makes sense," Callen says, scratching at his newly trimmed chin. With the hot water out, he was forced to rely on an electric shaver, settling for an even five o'clock shadow instead of a nice clean shave. "Jett loves his guns and hates the government," he says, referring to Jett Hawkins, the militia's leader.

"Give him a politician he already hates then have that same politician try to take away his guns…" Sam doesn't need to finish the sentence. They've all worked with the militia before at one time or another. They all know how the group feels about the government, even more so about the beloved second amendment.

"How long before the sheriff's department gets there?" Deeks asks in a nasally tone, frowning when he discovers one nostril has given up the fight and decided to stop working. He sniffs hard, trying his best to get it working again, only to stop when the act seems to intensify the pressure in his sinuses.

Callen looks at the clock on the dashboard, trying to remember how long ago Nell said she had called the local sheriff, asking him to send his men and SWAT to the militia's headquarters. "They should be there by now," he answers, once again letting his eyes go back to the snow-covered road. "They were taking a chopper."

The truck is massive, practically a tank. Its tires are made for Montana's winters and deep snow, but Callen still drives with an edge of caution, squinting his eyes as the morning sun reflects off the freshly fallen snow, blinding him as he drives to meet with the sheriff's department and hopefully stop the town's militia from performing a great act of stupidity.

The yard is covered with vehicles—state troopers, sheriff's department, and SWAT. The chopper can be heard in the distance. Callen pulls the borrowed pseudo-tank up next to an empty cruiser, the tailpipe still billowing steam despite the drive.

They all climb out of the car, each looking around, each wondering why it's so quiet. The sheriff, an older man with a thick mustache that would make Burt Reynolds jealous steps off the porch slowly, one hand resting on the butt of his gun, the other hanging by a thumb in his belt loop.

"You NCIS?" he asks, his voice sounding softer than his appearance suggests. Callen nods, extending his hand in greeting.

"Special Agent G Callen, these are Special Agents Kensi Blye, Sam Hanna, and Detective Marty Deeks." He points to them in turn, each reaching forward for a handshake and smiling warmly at the sheriff, but each on guard, expecting bad news.

And as things usually go, when you go looking for trouble, it's easy to find.

"Well," the sheriff begins, removing his hat and scratching a head full of graying hair, "As much as it pisses me off, it looks like we got here too late."

The warm smiles are gone now as the four team members look to the house, watching as law enforcement officials circle the property, no trace of angry militiamen within sight.

"We got here, and the whole place was empty. Looks like they left in a hurry, there's trash and a bunch of personal objects—clothes, toothbrushes, and whatnot, but no men and no militia. Most likely decided to bug out after you cut loose." The sheriff doesn't sound accusing, he sounds worried, like he knows having an angry militia going on the run in his county is bad news.

As Callen stands and looks at the large, but ultimately empty house, he can't help feeling the same way.

TBC…


	3. Love, Hate, and Other Four Letter Words

_A/N: So, the reason I have not responded personally to any of the reviews is because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to work her new phone. I don't have internet on my computer so I've been using my phone to check for reviews. Until a few hours ago, I didn't know where to find the respond button. Turns out I had to click the 'regular site' button for it to pop up. But rest assured, I will try my best to respond from now on. _

_Just in case anyone captures something that doesn't make sense, I want to say it may or may not be resolved by the end of the story. I'm getting over a concussion (one reason why it took so long for me to start a new NCIS:LA fic) but I'm pretty sure I've managed to organize everything so that it all wraps up in the end. Hopefully…_

Chapter 3: Love, Hate, and Other Four Letter Words

"As of right now, your main objective, Mr. Callen, is to find the bomb and those responsible _before_ the fundraiser." Even over the phone and with a distance of over a thousand miles, Hetty still has the power to make one feel like a little boy, or at least that's how Deeks feels. Judging by that wrinkle forming between Callen's eyebrows, Deeks is willing to bet that Callen feels the same way.

"That part I'm clear on," Callen says, leaning against the kitchen counter of the militia's former home. "What I don't understand is why the governor isn't taking this seriously."

"According to his advisors, he is," Hetty responds, her tone making it clear she doesn't believe it even for a moment. "However, I don't think it would hurt to personally remind the man that there is an angry militia armed with a bomb on his heels. It'd also be good to learn whether or not he or his staff has had any other issues with the group. It might help to shed some light as to where nearly forty men could be hiding."

"You want us to go to Helena?" Deeks asks incredulously. "You do realize that's like two hours away and most of the roads here are closed due to a blizzard, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Deeks, I am aware," she tells him. He's pretty certain if he were standing in front of her, she'd have tilted her head, clasped her hands behind her back, and arched one eyebrow completing that condescending motherly tone she's just used, the one that should only be reserved for dealing with hardheaded five year olds.

"Of course you are," he says, earning an elbow to the ribs from Kensi.

"I think it would be best if you split up," Hetty continues as though she hadn't heard Deeks' current bout of cheekiness. "Two of you should head into town, see if any of the locals have anything more to offer on the militia. In a town that small, there is sure to be someone who knows something."

"Sam and I will talk to the governor," Callen says, frowning at the thought of the two-hour drive across snow-covered roads, "Kensi, you and Deeks can go to town."

"Keep us updated, Mr. Callen," Hetty says, adding a quick but serious "Be careful," to the team before hanging up.

"Alright, so we've got one truck and two places to be," Deeks points out, already knowing that Sam and Callen will get the diesel behemoth parked outside for their two hour journey, leaving he and Kensi stranded and looking for a ride.

"We can get a ride into town with one of the sheriff's men," Kensi tells him, turning to see if the sheriff is still in sight. "I'm sure they have an extra vehicle we can borrow back at the station."

"Yeah, because going to interview people who hate the government and authority in a police cruiser is going to go over _so_ well," Deeks says, eyes rolling to emphasize the sarcasm.

Before anyone can say another word, one of the officers from outside walks into the kitchen. He's wearing a thick coat, and a baseball cap along with his uniform. He's holding his cell phone in one hand, looking at it as though it had sprung arms and decided to do the Macarena.

"Excuse me, is one of you Special Agent Callen?" he asks, finally looking up from his phone, but not loosing the confused look.

Callen nods and steps forward, which only seems to intensify the man's confusion. "Do you know a, uh…a Henrietta Lange?" the man asks, saying the name slowly, like it's a foreign word he's wanting to pronounce correctly.

"Yes," Callen says, his face starting to mirror the man's confusion. "Why?"

The man laughs a little, still confused but slightly amused. Shaking the phone in one hand and pointing out the window with his thumb with the other, he smiles a nervous smile. "She says I'm to give you and your partner a ride."

Callen and the others stare at the man for a moment, before looking to where his thumb is pointing. Sitting in the yard on the other side of the police cars is the helicopter that had been circling the property nearly half an hour earlier.

They stare a moment more, each taking the time to appreciate what's just happened. Finally, Deeks just laughs and shakes his head.

"God, I love that woman."

-:-

"I think I hate this town and everybody in it." Deeks slams the passenger door and begins stomping around the front of the truck. It's been nearly four hours already, four hours of slow driving and long distances. Having gotten started at six in the morning, there hadn't been a lot of businesses open in town, leaving Kensi and Deeks no choice but to drive across the county from farm to farm, only to have doors slammed in their faces, if they were opened at all.

"Nothing, nada. We've been at this for hours, and have yet to find a single person who will talk to us."

Kensi doesn't say anything, she just lets him complain. Truthfully, she's feeling the same way—irritated and angry. Her hand is hurting, the cut starting to itch as it begins to heal. She's cold, her fingers hurt from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, and she thinks she might be going blind from staring at fields of fluorescent white snow.

Yet, for once, she's not going to try to one-up her partner. Because, yes her hand hurts, but that was a result of her own stupidity. Deeks is sick, and ice-cube hands or not, he's running a fever. His voice has taken on a more scratchy tenor, and he's already gone through two travel-sized packets of tissues. Add that to a night of interrupted sleep, she knows constantly having the door slammed in his face is just making things worse.

"It's almost lunch time, Deeks," she says, putting the truck keys into her pocket as she walks towards the front porch. "Sheriff said the power wasn't out in town. Two more houses, then we'll go get something to eat," she promises, only to stop dead in her tracks when the all too familiar sound of a shotgun being readied follows the slow squeak of a screen door.

"It'd be best if you just turned around and got back in your truck."

For a moment, just one tiny moment, Deeks wants to turn to Kensi and say 'Oh my god, it's Chuck Norris.' But he doesn't, mainly because Mr. Norris is very steadily holding a shotgun at his face, beard and flannel shirt or not.

"Joseph Tanner," Kensi calls out, using the man's true name, "We're with NC—"

"I know who you are," Joseph interrupts, swinging the shotgun around to face Kensi, "And I still think it'd be best if you left."

"Alright, Mr. Tanner," Deeks says, slowly taking a step backwards in the direction of the truck. "We don't want any trouble here."

"That makes two of us," Joe says, the gun still aimed at Kensi. "You might want to take that lunch a little early, sweetheart. There isn't anyone around here who's gonna want to talk to the feds."

Kensi bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to react to the 'sweetheart' line. Were the guy not holding a shotgun, she'd show him just how sweet she could be. But deciding that living trumps pride, she follows in Deeks' footsteps and begins to back away, her hand slowly reaching for the truck keys.

She doesn't even bother with a seatbelt as she puts the truck in gear and drives away, putting as much distance between Joseph Tanner and them as she can.

"Well, that was fun," Deeks deadpans. If he wasn't serious when he said he thought he hated this town earlier, he is now. "I hate this town."

"I'm pretty certain they hate us too," she says, slowing her speed now that the farmhouse is out of site.

Deeks raises his eyebrows in agreement, as he looks out the windshield at the sea of white. It's like the desert, only prettier. White as far as the eye can see, unblemished. "So, you still want to check out two more houses, or are we just gonna go right into town and piss off everyone there?"

"When we order our food, don't mention that we're with the government," Kensi warns, seriously considering going back to their farmhouse and dining on Twinkies and cold potato soup. She doesn't know if everyone in this town is supportive of the militia, or if they're just afraid to cross them. Either way, even in their absence, the militia is putting up roadblocks in their investigation.

"Yeah, I prefer my food spit free, thank you very much. Although with the serious 'love you' vibe the townsfolk are sending our way, they're probably more likely to spike our coffee with rat poison." Deeks rubs at his eyes, trying to get the itchy/watery feel to go away.

"_Love you_ vibe?" Kensi asks, cutting her eyes to look at her partner.

Deeks laughs a little, his head falling back to lie against the headrest. "Yeah, 'love' probably isn't right. Maybe another four-letter word…"

"Yeah, maybe," Kensi agrees with a smile. They drive in silence for a little while, both letting the adrenaline brought on by having a gun pulled on them fade away, each silently running over the incident in their head, their own personal 'replay'.

"He called you sweetheart," Deeks says after a while. He turns his head, watching as Kensi's jaw tightens. He knows how she feels about pet names, it's what makes it so great that he's the only person that hasn't suffered the wrath of Fern, even after calling her Sugarbear.

She readjusts her grip on the steering wheel, her eyes squinting as she pushes on the gas. "I hate this town."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"Helicopter or motorcycle?" Callen asks, the sound of the propellers dying in the distance as he and Sam make their way to the governor's mansion. The place looks like a scene from a postcard, the snow sparkles in the early morning sunlight. Dozens of workers move about the property, clearing away snow and ice from sidewalks and railings, trying to hide the effects of the blizzard. They each wear thick gloves and heavy scarves to protect their fingers and noses from the biting cold, the fluorescent worker vests reflecting as much as the snow.

"What?" Sam asks, knowing Callen's about to start up one of their ridiculous 'would you rather' conversations.

"Helicopter or motorcycle? Which one's more fun to ride?" Callen clarifies as he rings the doorbell, his hand reaching for the badge in his pocket.

"Easy, motorcycle," Sam answers with a smile, knowing that Callen's going to disagree. It doesn't matter what he had said, Callen will always disagree. If he had said helicopter, Callen would have preferred the motorcycle, but since he didn't…

"Seriously? You get to fly with a helicopter, Sam." They're both facing the door, neither having to look at the other to know that he's listening, each waiting for the door to open, each prepared to put their professional faces on at the last second.

"Yeah, but while someone else is at the controls. With a motorcycle, _I'm_ in control," Sam explains. Callen laughs, not too loud since he sees someone walking towards them through the thick, crystallized glass on the door.

"It all comes down to control with you, doesn't it?"

Sam laughs now, his badge ready to show as he can hear the footsteps on the other side of the door. "You call me a control freak, and I'll call you a hypocrite," he warns with a whisper as the door opens wide, a young man in a suit and tie welcoming them into the house.

"Agents, this way," he says with one look at their badges. Obviously, he had been expecting them. They follow him through the marbled foyer, past the large spiral staircase, and into an elegant office, complete with dark wood furniture, polished to shine even in the dim lighting.

"Agents Callen and Hanna, I presume," Governor Dempsey begins, standing and offering them his hand. "I spoke with your boss, she was quite…vocal about me meeting with you."

"She's just worried you're not taking this militia threat seriously," Callen begins, sitting in one of the armed chairs in front of the large desk. "And to be honest, I have to agree."

"Oh, we're taking it seriously," Dempsey promises, "My team is working now to increase security for both me and my family. I'm not so naïve as to be blasé about a possible death threat, Agent."

"No sir, but it would be best to cancel the fundraiser. Jett Hawkins and his men are all very capable of acting on their plans," Sam warns, not liking the governor's devil-may-care attitude. Hundreds of people will be at the fundraiser, hundreds of lives are in danger, not just that of the governor.

"And I've been told that you and your team are very capable of stopping all of this militia mess before the fundraiser even takes place," Dempsey says with a bit of condescension, making it very clear that this 'militia mess' is nothing more than a thorn in his side. "Or have I been misled?"

Callen can tell by Sam's forced 'No, sir,' that his partner is trying very hard to remember those anger control techniques they teach in the Navy. If it weren't for the fact that he's a good person and knows to put what's right before pride, Callen would just say to hell with it all, and leave the governor to lie in the bed he's all too willing to make.

But Callen _is_ a good person, most days of the week, and pride is just going to have to take one in the sac this time around and let Governor Dumbass have the last word.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Kensi and Deeks are sitting in the back booth of the diner for two reasons. One, with most of the county's power being out, its citizen had flocked to town hoping for a warm meal and a warm room, leaving few choices in terms of where to sit. The second reason is that the corner booth gives them a wide view of the diner and the door, letting them see everyone that comes and goes, which is a good thing should Joseph 'Chuck Norris' Tanner or any of his friends decide to show up for the chicken potpie special of the day.

"You know what? This is actually pretty good," Deeks says around a mouthful of chicken, carrots, and celery as he points to his plate with his fork. Kensi nods in agreement, her own plate already half-cleared as she takes a sip of her coffee.

"Would you like a top-off?" the young waitress asks as she passes their table carrying a stack of dirty dishes.

Kensi smiles, "When you have time," she says, knowing the girl is busy. A few minutes later, Lindsey, if her nametag is correct, comes back to the table, a pot of coffee in her hand.

"If you don't mind me asking," she begins, slowly pouring the coffee into Kensi's waiting cup so as not to spill, "are you two of those Navy cops everyone's talking about?"

Deeks suddenly stops chewing, his eyes casting downwards towards his potpie suspiciously. Kensi sits her own fork down as she watches Deeks slowly swallow the suddenly heavy mouthful.

"Why do you ask?" Kensi keeps her voice friendly, her smile soft.

"Just curious, my daddy was in the Marines like a hundred years ago," the girl begins, seemingly oblivious to the pair's sudden discomfort, which in a way, works to calm both Kensi and Deeks. "And earlier this morning, this place was full of cops getting breakfast and coffee to go, all talking about NCIS, helicopters, and that idiot Jett Hawkins."

Deeks watches the girl's comfort with them, the way she smiles when she realizes she has an attentive audience. Judging by her behavior, Deeks feels it's probably safe to finish his potpie, that more than likely, Kensi's cup hadn't just been filled with arsenic.

"You know Jett Hawkins?" Deeks asks, once again picking up his fork.

"Everyone knows Jett," the waitress says, her eyes rolling as though the mere mention of the man is annoying. "He's some military fanatical or radical or…something." She shakes her head and shrugs, seemingly fine with not being able to find the right word. "Anyway, he grew up with my daddy, and—"

"Hey, can I get some of that coffee?" someone yells from a few tables down. The waitress smiles, and waves at the waiting customer, letting him know she'll be right with him.

"Would you mind giving us your dad's information?" Kensi asks before the girl can begin another breathless spiel. "We'd like to talk to him ourselves, maybe he can help us out a little with our investigation."

"Sure, no problem," she says, picking up the carafe and starting towards the waiting table, "I'll just leave it with your check."

"Well, looky there," Deeks says, happily shoveling in another bite of steadily cooling potpie. "We didn't have to go looking for a lead, a lead came to us."

A few minutes later, Deeks is paying as Kensi reads over the name their waitress had given them.

-:-

This time, Deeks drives. A full stomach, and two cups of coffee to go along with a possible new source of information has helped to drastically lift his mood. Kensi has removed her gloves, her fingers working around the wrapping Sam had put in place the night before.

She had called Eric before leaving the diner, giving him the new name to run with the hopes that he'll be able to tell them whether or not the new guy is likely to pull a shotgun on them when they try to ask him questions. Now, driving through the dead zone, she has no way of calling Sam and Callen, no way of asking them whether or not they're on their way back or are they still in Helena interviewing the governor and his staff.

It's just after noon by the time their temporary home comes into view, its barn and silo standing in the backdrop. They had noticed the truck traveling behind them for a while. While a little unnerved, they hadn't been too worried. Due to the blizzard, most roads had been closed, forcing drivers to take roads they normally wouldn't travel, that and their house isn't the only farm down their particular road.

But as they climb out of the truck and make their way to the front door, that absentee sense of worry makes a sudden yet tardy arrival.

Deeks is standing on the porch waiting for Kensi to unlock the front door when that lone truck suddenly pulls into their yard. As rifles and shotguns suddenly make an appearance, another truck barreling down the snowy road, Deeks' earlier thought is permanently cemented in stone.

He hates this town, and all the people in it.

TBC…


	4. Fear the Broomstick & Behold the Potpie

_A/N: I might have gone a little overboard. This is exactly 17 pages of action and drama. And it's got nothing but Kensi and Deeks in it. I'm sorry Callen and Sam fans, I do apologize, but keep in mind, Chapter 5 will start with them. On another note, I have edited this thing, tried making it shorter and easier to follow. I apologize in advance because it is very fast paced. I usually don't like 'em like that, but what can you do? _

_On a happier note, I did all seventeen pages in less than twenty-four hours._ _That deserves an arms up in the air happy dance. _\o/

Chapter 4: Fear the Broomstick and Behold the Potpie

Fear is one of those things that you hate to admit feeling, but can't really deny. It's kind of like jealousy or guilt. Just saying it isn't there isn't going to make it go away. The moment it becomes clear that the nice men with guns are planning something much more dramatic than simply chasing them out of town like a good old fashioned western, Deeks feels fear start to rumble in his stomach, slowly clawing its way upwards.

Then again, that could just be the potpie deciding to make a second appearance.

"Kensi," Deeks mutters, urging his partner to pick up the speed and open the freaking front door.

"I'm working on it, Deeks," she says, her frozen fingers fumbling with the key, that little voice in her head demanding she keep calm. She can feel Deeks standing behind her, no doubt blocking her from the multitude of men and the many bullets they are no doubtedly itching to send their way.

Deeks very carefully takes a step backwards as the men begin to line up, the muzzles of their guns pointed to the ground. When the oldest looking one raises the barrel, closing one eye as he trains his sites, Deeks takes a much larger step back, his leg bumping into Kensi's backside just as she opens the door.

She wastes no time in grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in with her, using her foot to slam the door shut as she lets gravity take them both to the floor, one atop the other. She knows if circumstances were different, Deeks would make a memorable remark, something about her being on top, or playing rough. She believes Nell had once referred to it as a 'Deeksism'.

But things being what they are, with more bullets than she cares to count suddenly busting through the front door and neighboring walls, Deeks keeps his mouth closed, choosing instead to wrap his arms around her, pulling her head down into his chest as bits of wood and glass begin to rain down on them.

And in much the same way as the wind had stopped in the early hours of the morning, the gunfire suddenly stops and the bullets quit coming. Kensi keeps still, perfectly aware that both she and Deeks are holding their breaths as they wait for something to happen, good or bad—preferably good, but something. She can hear his heart racing in his chest, can feel it beating against her ear.

After what seems an eternity yet not long enough, a gruff voice drifts in through the now destroyed door.

"You two go round back, make sure they didn't try to escape. You two with me, keep an eye out for any movement."

Kensi's mismatched eyes widen as she turns her head to look at Deeks, his face only inches away, his eyes as wide as hers. They can hear the men making their way to the back of the house, the snow crunching beneath heavy boots.

Deciding it's probably best to get out of eyesight before the boots creaking the front steps make it inside, Kensi quietly but quickly begins to crawl towards the far bedroom, Deeks rolling onto his stomach and doing the same.

They've had close calls before, some more close than they care to admit, the scars being the only reminders. The only reason why this is a close call and not a disaster is because of the couch, the big fugly floral print couch with Kensi's pillow and blanket tossed haphazardly across its cushions.

They manage to make it there, hiding on all fours just before the lead gunman uses his oversized boot to kick in the mangled door, a tinkling of glass accompanying the sound of wood bouncing on wood. From there, it's a quick hustle to their toy-strewn bedroom. They know better than to hide, even the dumbest criminal with a knock upside the head would know to look beneath a bed or in a closet. After all, criminals watch movies, too.

Now, with a little wiggle room, Kensi and Deeks take out their guns, knowing they have to make each shot count in order to take down the five men. Deeks feels his pocket, making sure his phone is still there, hopefully not broken after the forceful but necessary fall to the floor.

Were it not for the fact that he has to be alert, has to have all his attention focused on not dying, he'd get out his phone and call for backup, send a quick text to Eric asking Hetty to work her mojo and beam them outta there. But necessity dictates outlandish requests will have to wait.

For now, it's survival time.

The men walk softly through the living room and kitchen, and Kensi knows if she were to sneak a peek she'd most likely see them with their guns ready, fingers poised over the triggers as they search for her and her partner.

Her sick partner, who she's just realizing hasn't sneezed or coughed in a pretty good while. He's standing with his hand over his nose, his eyes looking upwards, blinking rapidly as though he's sending a prayer via Morse code.

He must feel her looking at him, because he suddenly turns his head and meets her eyes. Her face as stern as possible, she slowly shakes her head, asking him to pray faster and hold in that sneeze.

It's not as loud as it could have been. All things considering, Deeks did a pretty good job of trying to muffle the sound, trying to hold it in, but in a silent house full of men who are listening for a pin drop, Deeks might as well have used an air horn.

Kensi's gun is up and ready the moment she sees Deeks' eyes squeeze shut in reflex to the sneeze, because she knows she's about to use it. Or at least she thought she was.

Instead, she's forced to back away from the door, her shoulder blades pressing into the wall as she turns her head away from the newest round of bullets. She can tell from the sound that they're from a handgun. More than likely, the group had used all of their rifle and shotgun rounds taking out the front door.

"Sonuva—Really?" Deeks screams in a harsh whisper, his elbow bumping against Kensi's as they move towards the window. Fear's starting to take a back seat to adrenaline-fueled anger. They aren't even giving them a chance. He and Kensi are like fish in a barrel, a Ninja Turtle and Power Ranger themed barrel.

Deciding a fish's best chance at survival is to swim away, Deeks turns, leaving Kensi to watch the door. He forces the rusty lock to unhitch, and pries open the window.

"Come on," he says jumping out first and raising his gun, covering the sides of the house so Kensi can get out without worrying about the two men outside sneaking up on her. No sooner does he feel her drop down beside him, huddling beneath the windowpane, do the men inside open fire, destroying the window and sending a few bullets through the wall.

"Run!" Kensi shouts, knowing they have no other choice. The bad thing about Montana's farm country is there is nowhere to hide. It's open land, and with the snow, Kensi and Deeks' dark coats and jeans make them stand out like two badly swollen gangrenous thumbs.

They make it to the barn, both unscathed by nothing more than sheer luck.

"Follow 'em you idiots!" Mr. Gruff bellows, and Deeks is a little relieved to hear that he sounds far away.

They're breathing heavy as they make it to the side of the barn, their breaths looking like little clouds in the frigid air. They can see the neighbor's house in the distance, nothing more than a series of fences and pastures blocking the way.

"We need to get…to that house," Deeks says, still trying to catch his breath. Running with a cold is never easy, running with a cold when the temperature is just below freezing is downright unpleasant. His nasal passages burn, leading the way to his lungs, which are beginning to protest. His head is pounding, and his nose is running.

"There's only three of them," Kensi whispers, hugging the barn wall as she watches the men run towards them. "Why aren't they all coming?"

"You ever hear that saying about a gift horse and its mouth?" Deeks asks, his phone to his ear, Callen's number already dialed. There's only one reason why they all wouldn't come after them, why two of the men would stay at the house.

"Pick up," he mutters through clenched teeth. As soon as he's connected to voicemail, he leaves a rushed message answering Kensi's question.

"Callen, there are at least two gunmen at the house. Don't go in alone, it's an ambush."

He puts the phone in his pocket as Kensi turns the corner and begins to take fire, shooting at the three men still out in the open. Whether it's the cold or nerves, she misses, the distance still too great to get a descent shot.

Of course, that doesn't stop the men from firing back, their handguns getting no more accuracy than Kensi's.

"We can't just run," Kensi says, checking her clip and frowning. "We'll be out in the open. There's too much open space between here and that barn." She gestures to the large, dilapidated looking building in the distance. It's the neighbor's barn, old and the color of wet cardboard. To Deeks, it looks like the whole building's being held together with nothing more than a lick and a promise.

As more gunfire bounces off the corner of their barn, chips of wood splintering near Kensi's shoulder, Deeks points out needlessly, "Well, we can't stay here."

Kensi spares enough time to give him a well deserved glare of the '_duh'_ variety before spinning around and firing two more shots, groaning when she misses both times.

"Get inside," she says with a push to his shoulder, urging him in the direction of the side door to the barn. It smells like mold, wet hay, and dirt. Before Deeks has a chance to appreciate the simplicity of the barn and the all too predictable layout right down to the shovel leaning against the stall and the feed pail turned upside down by the spade, all hell breaks loose.

The main door bursts open, two men entering, firing at will. They're not really aiming, just shooting to cover as much ground as possible. The third man enters soon after, right behind Deeks and Kensi, his nearness promising better aim than his friends.

Not having enough time nor room to raise his weapon, and with a voice in his head he'll later describe as belonging to Hetty saying, "surprise is key", Deeks attacks, jumping forward and knocking the man's gun out of the way, loosing his own in the process.

He begins pummeling the man's face, balling his fist and hitting as hard as he can as the sound of gunfire once again fills the air.

"Deeks! Run, now!" Kensi yells from behind. Trusting her judgment, Deeks doesn't look back, he scoops up both his and the fallen man's gun, and takes off through the side door, heading east for the neighbor's house and the promise of temporary safety.

-:-

Kensi is acting on instinct, plain and simple. The moment Deeks lunges for man number three, her arms immediately rise and fire at the other two, leaving them no choice but to take cover in one of the stalls.

"Deeks! Run, now!" she yells, seeing no other opportunity. Pretty soon, she's going to be out of bullets, and the two men probably know that. The last thing she wants is for the men still at the house to decide they want in on the action.

Her gun still aimed at the stall, she steps over the unconscious man lying on the ground, his nose bloodied and broken. As soon as she clears the doorway, she takes off running, several yards behind Deeks.

She sees him look over his shoulder, checking to make sure she's still with him. She waves him on, telling him not to stop, not to slow down and wait.

"Go!" she yells, just as more gunshots sound, the snow around her exploding like dust bombs.

"Kensi!" Deeks yells, and when she looks up, he's stopped running. He's firing back at the men in the barn, giving her time to catch up, to get away. His coat's unzipped, a second gun visible in the front waistband of his jeans, making him look like one of those wannabe gang bangers you see in a bad cop show from the 90s.

He's still shooting as she passes him, her eyes trained on the neighbor's barn. "Deeks, I got it," she yells once she's climbed over the first fence. She turns, mirroring his stance and begins to open fire, taking up where he's left off, giving him the chance to run now.

The men stay just inside the door, too smart to risk jumping out and returning fire, even at the long distance. It's too much of a chance that Kensi's shot could get lucky.

But then 'pretty soon' shows up, her gun clicking as she pulls the trigger on an empty chamber. She doesn't wait, she just turns and runs, yelling for Deeks as she does.

If he's keeping count, he's got four bullets left in his gun, no idea how many are remaining in the borrowed one still tucked in his jeans. Hearing his name, he turns around, firing at the barn, knowing he's too far to get a decent shot.

He spaces the shots out, one breath and a half, trying to make those four remaining bullets last a while. The men must have caught on, probably thanks to the bullets getting farther and farther from their target, because next thing Deeks knows, they're no longer hiding behind the door.

Just as Kensi runs by, the men begin to fire back. Deeks fires the last shot and reaches for the gun at his waist.

"Go Kensi, go!" he yells, knowing there's nothing more they can do than run, something that would be so much easier were they not trying to do so in eight inches of snow.

Deeks runs as fast as he can, the fear and potpie resting heavy in his stomach, each vying for dominance. Running through snow is a lot like trying to walk on a potpie. That subtle hardness on top, that thin crust offering momentary and false resistance, only to break away, leaving your feet to sink into the wet filling. Only instead of warmth full of peas and carrots, the snow is cold and harsh, the freezing temperatures sending a sharp pain straight into his bones.

He changes his mind. This isn't the type of snow he likes. Snow can kiss his ass, right along with the plague that's ravaging his sinuses, trigger happy card carrying members of the Hill Billy Brigade, and whoever the dumb fuck is that sat down and said, "Hey man, you know what we should do? We should get a whole bunch of assholes together just like us and call it the militia!"

Yeah, that guy can kiss his ass, too.

Deeks sees Kensi make it to the barn, her thin frame slipping through the door. Suddenly, the shots get closer, the shooters' aim getting better as they close the distance. Deeks has his eyes focused on the barn door, willing himself to make it that far, just a little further. The men with the guns and obviously more bullets than is necessary seem to have other plans in mind.

Bullets begin to sink into the barn door, cutting off Deeks' path and forcing him around the side. He's hoping to see a side door, similar to the one at the other barn, but instead there's nothing but solid wall.

Hearing one of the men shout orders, the voices sounding much closer than Deeks is comfortable with, he takes off running, separating himself from his partner.

-:-

The barn is much older than the last, a lot smaller too. There are no stalls, no feed pails or shovels. All she sees is an old rusted tractor with only three tires taking up a majority of the space, something that looks like a giant cheese grater attached to the front, sharp spikes shining new, looking out of place on the antique machine. There's an assortment of tools lying on the ground, an opened toolbox nearby. There's no other exit.

She takes deep, shaky breaths, turning back towards the door, expecting Deeks to come bursting in any moment. But he doesn't.

"Deeks?" she says, her voice probably too quiet for him to hear. She jumps as the door begins to rattle on it's hinges, tiny beams of sunlight showing where the bullets have entered.

"Deeks!" she yells now, knowing he was right behind her.

"Go, I've got the woman!" one of the men say, and Kensi tries to take comfort in that, if for no other reason than the fact that the second man wouldn't be going after a dead man, which means that Deeks is still alive, and hopefully unhurt.

Realizing she has no weapon, no way to defend herself, she heads for the tools. Gripping tightly to the handle of a large wrench, she waits by the door, her back to the wall. She knows the man's likely to come in firing, it's what he did last time.

Later, when she thinks back on the memory, she'll smile knowing she was right.

The door bursts open, the man sweeping his gun wide, his finger working double-time on the trigger. Kensi, using all the strength she's been given, lifts the wrench high over her head and brings it down hard. She can hear the man's bone crunch as the tool meets his arm, the gun falling from his grip.

She hadn't realized just how big the man is. He could easily give Sam a run for his money, his shoulders nearly three times the width of her own. With his one good arm, he reaches up and grabs her wrist, squeezing tight and forcing her to release her grip on the wrench.

Determined not to let him get the upper hand, she brings up her knee, catching him right in the stomach. As he doubles over, she slams her closed fist down hard on the side of his neck. It's as she's raising her hand to do it a second time that he catches her off guard.

Still bent over, he charges forward, using his shoulder to ram into her like a linebacker. She's lifted off her feet, her hands grabbing hold to the material of his thick Carhartt jacket.

At first she thought he was going to ram her against the wall, she was even prepared for the impact. Either he too was running on instinct or he tripped, because the next thing Kensi knows, she's flying towards the ground, muscleman coming down with her.

It's quite possibly the worst pain she has ever felt. From her hip to her toes, she feels nothing but fire. Her back is throbbing, she can actually feel her heartbeat pulsating across her shoulder blades.

Once again, letting instinct take over, she reaches out, her hands clawing at the ground, nails digging into the frozen dirt. As the man lifts his head and pushes himself off of her, she wraps her fingers around the only thing she can reach. Biting her lower lip, she swings with all her might, burying the screwdriver into the man's neck, right into the same spot she had punched only moments earlier.

As the man falls, his eyes wide, his one good arm reaching up, fingers scrambling for the deeply embedded screwdriver, Kensi turns away. Bile is rising in her throat, her eyes watering as she hears the man begin to panic the moment he pulls the tool from his neck. There is nothing she can do, nothing to help him. She lets her head lay back on the ground as he falls, her eyes looking at the rafters as his breath quickens before stopping all together.

Taking a deep and slow breath, she lifts her head and looks down at her leg, at the source of the worst pain. She can't help the sudden sob that breaks loose at the sight. Two shiny spikes from the tractor's cheese grater are sticking through her jeans, the denim all along her inner thigh soaking up the blood as her torn flesh bleeds freely.

She jumps, causing only more pain, as the sound of gunshots echo in the distance, and suddenly her mind is taken to her partner.

"Deeks," she says, perfectly aware that he can't hear her. She knows she can't stay where she is. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out one of her gloves. Twisting it, she places it between her teeth, biting down as warm tears make little tracks down her wind burned cheeks.

Counting to three in her head, she lifts her leg upwards, crying out as the tiller shifts with the movement. Not stopping to catch her breath, she lifts again, using the momentum to roll to the side, landing on her stomach amongst the scattered tools.

She sits for a moment, forcing herself to get things under control, to stop crying. She takes her belt and tightens it around her leg, wincing and crying out at the pressure. She wipes away the tears with her dirty fingers, and uses the tractor to help her stand.

As a second round of gunshots echoes, she limps over to her would-be-killer's forgotten gun, and slips out the door.

-:-

With the barn no longer an option, Deeks steers left and heads for the silo, the chipped white structure offering sanctuary. He doesn't stop running until he's rounded the side, his eyes listening for the telltale sound of feet crunching towards him. It'd probably be easier to listen if he wasn't panting and his heartbeat wasn't pounding in his ears.

He hears gunshots, quick and loud and it takes everything he has not to run back to the barn. The only thing keeping him where he's at is the fact that there's another man with a gun just a few feet away.

Deciding to strike first, Deeks turns and fires once, feeling a little satisfaction when his bullet lands in the man's shoulder. The satisfaction doesn't linger around when the man returns fire, forcing Deeks to move.

For a crazy moment, he thinks they're going to go round and round, each circling the other around the large structure. But then he's proven wrong.

Deeks is starting to think he must have been a grade A ass hat in a past life, because he sure as hell hasn't done enough wrong in this lifetime to merit the serious amount of bad luck karma is sending his way.

Just as he ducks out of sight of the shooter, all his focus on the direction from which he's just come, he hears a swoosh and then feels the impact.

Dropping to his knees, he turns just in time to put up his hands, blocking the shovel as it begins to make its second descent. He looks up into the man's bloodied face, recognizing it as the third shooter, the one he had pummeled back at the first barn.

Trusting his aim, he pulls the trigger twice while his other hand works to deflect the shovel. As soon as the man falls, Deeks spins around and runs, leaving the man with the gun at the silo.

Past life equals grade A ass hat. It's the only explanation.

He stops, standing in the open and turns, thinking the shooter will still be behind the silo. He's more than a little surprised to find the man standing maybe a car's length away, gun aimed, and an evil smirk on his face.

"It'd probably have been better if you had never come here," the man says.

Deeks squeezes his gun. It's still at his side, he hadn't had time to raise it. "Did Chuck Norris tell you to say that?"

"What?" the man asks, tilting his head in confusion.

"Nothing," Deeks says, shaking his head. "It's just a little inside joke."

"So you think this is funny?" The man takes a step forward.

"Well, not anymore," Deeks quips, taking a step back.

"We know Greg is one of you," the man says, speaking about Callen's alias. "A Navy cop." The words are spoken slowly, tauntingly. "Tell me, Agent, why's the Navy after us?"

Deeks doesn't correct the man on the use of 'agent', he just takes another step back. "Long story," he says, hoping like hell he has at least one bullet left in the gun.

The man snorts a little laugh, lowers the gun and fires directly at Deeks' feet.

Deeks hops, causing the man to laugh even more, shooting two more rounds. Deeks falls to one knee as a bullet hits the side of his boot, lodging into the rubber sole. The loud crack and shift beneath his feet stop the man's laughter, and sends Deeks' heart to racing.

Their eyes meet, and Deeks doesn't know how he feels seeing sudden fear in the man's eyes.

"I don't mean to worry you, Grizzly Adams," Deeks begins, using his palm to clear away some of the snow, "but I think we're on a pond."

The man doesn't say anything in response, so Deeks decides to ask, "Just out of curiosity, how frozen do you think it is?"

"Not enough," the man says, slowly backing away, his gun still aimed at Deeks. There's another loud crack, and the man stops to look down. Deeks quickly uses the distraction and raises his gun, firing four rounds into the man's chest.

He half expects the ice to break as the man's body hits the ground, sending them both plummeting into the icy depths. For a moment, he envisions Sam and Callen pulling him out of the ice, his form a perfect replica of Han Solo's carbonite pose.

But the ice doesn't break and he doesn't fall. He looks in the direction of the barn, the silo blocking his view. Right now, two things are on his mind. One, getting off the ice. And two, finding Kensi.

Slowly, he stands, his legs shoulder width apart, his arms spread wide for balance. And that's when he falls.

The ice breaks, the edges pressing painfully into his legs as he goes down. "Damn it to hell! That's cold!" he hisses, his voice a little higher than it should be. He supposes he's used up all of his bad karma, because the pond isn't deep, or at least the section he's standing on isn't. As soon as he makes it back on his feet, he sees that the water only goes to his knees.

He kicks his way to towards the silo, near violent shivers taking control as the barn comes into view. Forcing his hands up, he quickly crosses the distance, frowning when he hears only silence.

Counting to three, he pushes open the barn door, feeling a rush of relief that the body before him isn't his partners. But the relief quickly vanishes when he sees the trail of blood, the Kensi-sized handprint on the door.

"Kensi?" he calls, frowning when he sees that she's not in the barn. Stepping back outside, he looks down, noticing for the first time the drops of blood in the snow leading away from the barn.

-:-

Kensi isn't entirely sure what she is. She's not a girly-girl or a tomboy. She's not weak, yet not unstoppable.

Right now, she's just woman, a person in pain who's a little afraid. She had stepped outside the barn, her eyes immediately going to the silo and the body lying on the ground. To her relief, the man had on a dark blue coat, not black like Deeks. Even from far away, she could tell that the man's hair was short and dark, the hat lying on the ground definitely not belonging to Deeks.

Glancing around and finding no one else, she had turned, using the barn's outer wall for support as she limped to the house.

The woman had met her on the porch, a shotgun in her aged hands, and Kensi had felt like she wanted to cry. She was hurt, she didn't know where her partner was, and she was not in the mood to be told off by a militia supporting granny.

"Please," Kensi had begun, her hands rising wide in defense. "I'm a federal agent. I just need some help."

The woman had furrowed her brow, but lowered the gun. Kensi had taken that as a good sign and continued. "I'm looking for my partner. A man…did he come this way?"

"No man," the woman had said with a thick Italian accent. "I called polizia."

Kensi had pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying her best to keep it together. On one hand she had been relieved that help was on the way, on the other, Deeks was still missing.

"I'm with the police," Kensi had said, reaching for her badge and showing it to the woman. "Polizia," she translated.

The woman had simply nodded, but her frown intensified when she saw Kensi's leg. "Come inside," she said, and had stepped off the porch to help Kensi.

"No," Kensi had protested. "I need to find my partner." But the woman hadn't really given Kensi a choice. She had wrapped her arm around Kensi's waist and ushered her into the house.

At the moment, Kensi's sitting on the edge of the tub, the old woman's shotgun propped against the toilet as the woman goes for a first-aid kit. Kensi's got both hands to her leg, applying pressure with the towels the woman had given her.

She tries reaching into her pocket for her phone, the motion making her dizzy. She reaches for the nearby sink, holding on to the stained porcelain in hopes it will keep her up. Realizing that gravity and blood loss are not close friends, Kensi slowly lowers herself into the tub, biting her lip the entire time, pretending that tears aren't falling.

That's when she hears a shout of pain and surprise coming from the other room.

-:-

Deeks can hear a generator rumbling somewhere near the back yard, explaining the lights he sees inside. He's following the footsteps, counting the blood drops and not liking the number he's getting.

He doesn't knock as he reaches the front door, he simply pushes it open and walks in. The fireplace is lit, the room warm, making the shivering taking control of his body intensify. He keeps his ears sharp, his eyes following the blood as he clears the first two rooms.

It's as he steps into the hall that he meets trouble.

A broomstick comes flying at him, hitting him square on the head, a little woman no taller than Nell screaming at him in a language he doesn't understand.

"Woah, woah lady. I'm a cop, I'm a cop," he says, grabbing for the broomstick. She hisses something at him, and he knows if he understood her he'd probably be offended. Choosing to ignore the would-be insult, he grabs his badge and holds it up.

"I'm a cop," he repeats, pointing to the badge. "I'm looking for my partner, I think she might be hurt."

"Deeks!"

He's can count the number of times he's felt relief greater than this moment, and can do so on one hand. "Kensi?" he calls back, trying to push past the woman and her broom.

"There's a crazy woman hitting me a stick," he yells to her, his voice shaking as his teeth chatter. His jeans are soaked all the way to his thigh, his arms just as wet.

"Marta, that's my partner," Kensi yells, and Deeks doesn't like how faint her voice sounds. "He's polizia."

"Polizia," Deeks repeats, shaking his badge.

"She's in bathroom," Marta says, turning and grabbing a first-aid kit from the room she had sprung from. "Hurting badly."

Deeks doesn't say anything. Taking the kit, he walks to the door the woman had pointed to, the one with that's open.

Deeks isn't a very emotional guy. He has his moments, don't get him wrong, but in the end, he's more comfortable trying to smooth everything over with a joke.

But there's nothing funny about what he sees, no joke he can think of to lighten the mood.

There's blood on the sink, on the tub, and the floor. Kensi is lying in the bathtub, her knees bent, her face dirty, a culmination of tears, dirt, and blood marring her cheeks.

"What happened?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. He's pretty certain the shake he just heard isn't caused by the cold.

"Got thrown on a soil tiller," she says, her voice just as shaky. Her lips are almost white, her tone soft.

"How bad is it?" he asks, kneeling beside the tub and reaching for the bloody towels.

"It's pretty bad," she says. Deeks is used to Kensi trying to kick his ass, and usually succeeding. He's used to a strong, stubbornly independent woman with a massive competitive streak. He isn't used to hearing her on the verge of tears, to seeing her in pain.

"My phone's dead," he explains, his fingers slowly pulling the towels back. "It took a swim in a pond. Have you called for help yet?"

"Marta did," Kensi tells him, looking to the woman standing in the doorway. Marta nods, but keeps quiet, leaving Kensi and Deeks to handle the situation on their own.

"We need to call Eric," Deeks says. As he pulls away the last towel, he feels that potpie and fear cocktail again. There's a thick hole in Kensi's left leg, a jagged gash a few inches to the right.

"A soil tiller did this?" he asks.

Kensi nods as she slides blood slicked fingers over her recently retrieved phone. "Looked like a demented cheese grater."

Deeks just puts the towels back, pressing down as he tries to ignore the small whimper of pain. He frowns as Marta places her hand on his shoulder, a bent needle that looks like a massive fishing hook in her hand.

"Use this," she tells him, and his frown deepens.

"For what?" he asks, looking to Kensi, trying to see if there's something he's missed. Apparently, there is.

"We need to stop the bleeding, Deeks," Kensi explains, pointing to the needle and thread.

"We're trying," he tells her, gesturing to the towels.

Kensi shakes her head as her thumb taps the screen of her phone. "It's bleeding a lot." She tries to keep her tone even as she explains. "It doesn't have to be pretty, it just needs to work."

"Wait, you're…you're wanting me to stitch you up?" His voice is full blown incredulous now as he studies Kensi's face, looking for some sign that she's joking. "What…no," he finally says when it becomes clear she isn't. "Kens, that's insane."

"Not insane," Marta says, proving her English isn't as bad as it first seemed, "Necessary."

"Look, we'll just call Eric," Deeks says, taking the phone from Kensi's hands and pressing speed dial. "Hetty'll get a chopper or something, and we'll get you to a hospital, with doctors, drugs, and people who know how to sew other people up. It'll be fun."

"Deeks…" Kensi begins, but Deeks isn't listening. He puts the phone on speaker and lays it on Kensi's stomach, freeing up both hands to apply pressure to both sides of her leg.

"What's up, Kensi?" Eric asks when he answers, completely unaware how bad things have gotten.

"Eric, where's Hetty?" Deeks doesn't bother trying to sound nice.

"I have no idea," Eric says quietly, a sure sign that he's picked up on the tone in Deeks' voice. "What's happened?"

"We were ambushed my Callen's militia friends," Deeks tells him. "Three of 'em are dead, but two are still waiting at the house for Sam and Callen. We can't get them on the phone."

They can hear as Eric dials Callen's number, nothing more than voicemail on the other end. Sam's the same.

"They most be in a dead zone," Nell speaks up. "I'll call the sheriff's station, see if they've gotten back from Helena-"

"No, call us an ambulance first," Deeks interrupts, causing both Eric and Nell to fall silent.

"Is one of you hurt?" Nell asks in a forced calm.

Deeks nods even though she can't see, "Kensi's leg is pretty messed up. I can't stop the bleeding."

"We're gonna do stitches," Kensi says, finally speaking. "Just find Sam and Callen before they get to the house."

"We're not doing stitches," Deeks says angrily, "Marta's already called the police. The sheriff should be at the house soon, just send us an ambulance."

"I'm calling them now," Eric promises, the sound of his chair rolling away filtering through the line.

"Deeks," Nell says in a calming voice, "you need to control the bleeding."

"We are," he insists, looking to Kensi pleadingly. There's a lot of things he isn't comfortable doing, giving someone stitches is one of them.

"Stitches would be more effective," Kensi counters. "Not a whole lot of 'em, just a few, Deeks."

"You're in a bathtub," Deeks points out as though Kensi could have missed that fact. "There's germs, and bacteria—" he begins, listing off the reasons why it's a bad idea. "And you'd feel the whole thing, unless Marta here whacks you upside the head with her broomstick, you'll feel every prick."

"It won't be that bad," she insists. "Those lidocaine shots hurt like hell anyway," she says with a smile.

"Yeah, but the morphine shots they give you aren't so bad. Kensi, what if I mess something up? I could make it worse."

"Ambulance is on it's way," Eric says, reminding Kensi and Deeks that they're on speaker. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Can you find Hetty and let her know what's happened?" Deeks asks.

"Will do," Eric answers, ending the phone call.

"Listen, I know you're a dropper," Kensi begins, only to have Deeks interrupt her once again.

"I am not a dropper."

"You hit the floor the moment Hetty gave you that shot," Kensi says, "You're a dropper. But Deeks, I really don't want to bleed to death here."

Deeks bites his lip, his eyes staring at his hands, at the steadily reddening towels. "I don't want to hurt you Kensi."

"You'll be helping me," she insists. "Besides, you know you've always wanted to play doctor, this is your shot."

"Yeah, that's not what I meant." He turns and reluctantly takes the needle from Marta. "When we get out of here, remind me to teach you the proper way to play doctor."

Kensi just smiles as she shifts her leg, trying to give Deeks the best angle. She frowns when she realizes what she needs to do.

"I think I need to take off my pants," she whispers. Hearing the softness and complete discomfort in her voice, Deeks keeps his mouth shut, choosing not to say something inappropriate.

She fumbles with the button, and it takes her two tries to get the zipper. When it becomes painfully obvious that she isn't going to be able to continue on her own, she looks to Deeks, her eyes making it perfectly clear she wishes this wasn't happening.

Handing her the needle to hold, Deeks carefully leans over the tub. He places thumbs in the waistband of her jeans, and very carefully begins to pull them down, trying his best not to jostle her leg more than is needed.

Whether consciously or not, Deeks has thought about doing this very thing at least once or twice, a secret fantasy of undressing his partner, his mind inevitably going to that forbidden place when Kensi'd prance about in her tight jeans or short skirts. But never before has he imagined it being like this.

She's in pain, embarrassed, and scared, and he wants nothing more than to make it all go away.

"Sorry," he says as a whimper escapes when he pulls the jeans over the damaged thigh, the wound looking so much worse in the open.

"S'okay," she says, her eyes squeezed shut as she works to steady her breathing. "S'okay."

Marta comes forward now, a washcloth and dark bottle in her hand. Deeks just scoots back, giving the woman room to clean Kensi's leg. He doesn't remember consciously reaching out, but he suddenly realizes he's squeezing Kensi's hand as Marta does her work.

A few moments later, Marta steps out of the way, leaving Deeks to once again take control. The leg is bloodied again, no sign that it was even cleaned except for the faint stain of yellow visible beneath the blood.

"Hey, Deeks?" Kensi asks, handing him the needle.

"Yeah?" he says.

"If you pass out doing this, try not to hit your head on the toilet, okay?" She smiles wide, and Deeks can't help smiling with her.

"I'll aim for a soft landing," he tells her, before looking back to her leg.

The two women talk him through it, Kensi offering moral support, and Marta pointing to where he should place the next stitch. In the end, he gives her seven stitches, a lot fewer than is really needed, but seven more than he thinks he should have done.

"Thank you, Deeks," Kensi whispers, her head leaning back in the tub. She looks paler now than she did before.

Deeks just nods as he swallows. That had been horrible, just as bad as he thought it would be.

Nodding again, he turns, knocking the shotgun out of the way and lifting the lid to the toilet as he leans over and empties his stomach, those two cups of coffee and chicken potpie making a stellar second appearance.

"Are you okay?" Kensi asks as soon as he finishes, his back leaning against the wall, his feet stretching forward towards the tub.

"Yeah," he says, wiping his mouth with his shirt. "Are you?"

Kensi looks down at her leg, the edges of the wound swollen from the stitches. "Well, I'm not bleeding anymore," she says, smiling a weak smile.

Deeks simply nods again. Not bleeding is probably as good as it's gonna get.

TBC…

_A/N: Okay, I've waited till the end to explain this little disclaimer, because I didn't want to give anything away. Opinions tend to vary depending on who you're asking, but yes, it is possible to give stitches in the home. I myself once had stitches put into my head after an unfortunate meeting with an a/c window unit. Friend's dad was a GP and had all the stuff right there in his house. Of course, we lived in the country and it was almost a two hour drive to the nearest hospital and he was the doc for the local clinic anway._

_That being said, time for the disclaimer. Don't be stupid people. If it's bad enough that you think you're gonna bleed to death in an Italian woman's bathtub, get your ass to a hospital ASAP. Don't try and sweet-talk your wish-he-was-a-boyfriend into sewing you up. But this is fiction, and I like drama, and I think it's cute that Deeks is afraid of needles, so…_

_For the record, I don't think anyone is dumb enough to get medical advice from fanfiction. Or at least, I sincerely hope not._


	5. The Ballad of the Worried Mind

_A/N: For the record, where I live a wool or knit cap is referred to as a 'toboggan' or 'boggan'. I am perfectly aware that a toboggan is also a sled, but in my neck of the woods, when you walk into a store to buy a wool or knit cap, the word toboggan is written on the tag. Sorry for all the confusion, I really didn't know it wasn't called that anywhere else. Now, I do. I also now know that in Canada, it's called a tuque ;)._

_Another thing, and this one's a biggie, I always proofread before I post, at least twice. But it is entirely possible to miss something. This isn't an excuse for my other stories (because there are occasional typos in them as well), but I am healing from a concussion. I do apologize for those three typos that were found (and the few that weren't pointed out). Rest assured, no one will ever 'loose' anything again in any of my stories. However, as much as I would love to, I can't promise I won't overlook another typo, though I will do my best._

_I am all for constructive criticism, it's necessary to make people better writers, and I welcome it from any readers who are willing to read my rambling stories composed of, in my opinion, nothing but improperly constructed sentences. That being said, you only have to tell me something once, no need to do so repeatedly with capital letters and exclamation points—it makes me feel like I'm being yelled at. I don't like being yelled at. _

Chapter 5: The Ballad of the Worried Mind

Callen truly believes that the governor handpicks the people on his payroll. Each member of his staff, from political advisors to the guy that cleans the toilets on the ground floor, each one possessed the same holier-than-thou attitude, each having greeted Sam and Callen with the same condescending detachment as their employer.

After a few hours of interviewing, all Sam and Callen had learned is that the governor's stance on the prevalent militia presence in Montana is nearly non-existent. Other than a few anonymous letters that _may _or may not be from individual members of the militia, there is no sign that Jett Hawkins or his men had any past conflicts with the governor or his staff.

"How are you boys liking the house?" Sheriff Singer asks politely, catching both Sam and Callen by surprise. The sheriff had been kind enough to offer them a ride back to their house after the helicopter landed. Seeing no other way of getting back to their temporary home, the agents had agreed.

"It's pretty cozy," Sam tells him, finding it odd that the sheriff would ask. "Power went out with the storm, but we made do."

"Yeah, I tried getting the generator set up before y'all got here, but work kept getting in the way. That and Hetty didn't really give me much of a head start," the sheriff apologizes, only causing more confusion and a great deal of surprise in his two passengers.

"Wait, you know Hetty?" Callen asks from the back seat of the cruiser.

"Oh yeah," Sheriff Singer says with a smile. "Made the mistake of getting on her bad side back in '72. Took me by surprise, that woman did. Been friends ever since." He looks over and sees the two men sharing a baffled but ultimately unsurprised look, almost as though they've come to expect anything from Henrietta Lange, which only goes to prove that they know the woman. At least, as well as she can be known.

"It was during Vietnam," he begins to explain, "I was just an Army grunt back then. One day, we wake up to find our CO missing. We had no idea what happened, and the higher ups weren't talking. When our Major walks out of the officer's tent, and points to the little woman behind him and declares that she's going to be in charge until our Colonel got back, I thought it was a joke." He recounts the memory with a pained laugh, proving just how bad of an idea it is to underestimate Hetty.

He shakes his head, pushing aside the memory. "Long story short, for two days that woman bossed us around and kept us alive. I haven't heard from her in over ten years. Imagine my surprise when she calls me up out of the blue, and not only does she know about my house, she asks if she can borrow it for a little while."

"That sounds like Hetty," Callen says, sitting back in his seat. "So, if we're bunking at your place, where've you been sleeping?"

"At the station," Sheriff Singer tells him, "But it's no problem I assure you. It's where I usually stay. Got the back room all set up nice and cozy."

"What about the little kid's room?" Sam asks, referring to the cartoon themed bedroom, and the obvious evidence that kids live there, too.

"Grandkids. Sorry for the mess. I usually just quarantine that room as a hazardous environment when they aren't up for a visit." The sheriff laughs again, probably trying to remember just how messy the room had been. "They're six and nine. A real handful," he says with all the pride of a happy grandfather.

Sam nods in complete understanding, memories of stepping on Barbie shoes and a stray Lego running through his mind. He's about to ask about getting the generator set up when the radio on the dashboard comes to life, a static filled signal cutting him off.

"_All units, be advised, we have reports of multiple shots fired at 2100 Fieldstown Road. All units respond."_

"Why does that sound familiar?" Callen asks worriedly.

"Because that's my house," the sheriff answers, pushing down hard on the accelerator as he reaches for the radio.

-:-

It's perfectly clear, even from a distance, that something is wrong. Callen immediately recognizes the two pickups parked in the yard as belonging to members of the militia. As they drive closer, both his and Sam's phone begin to go crazy, that invisible dead zone ending, revealing a multitude of missed calls and voicemails, neither of which are good signs.

That theory gets upgraded to fact as the front porch comes into view. The door and windows are gone, the siding spackled and cracked with bullet holes.

"G," Sam says, grabbing his gun and switching off the safety.

"I know, Sam," Callen tells him, sharing his worry.

"Where are your partners?" Sheriff Singer asks as he takes in the sight of his damaged home, his mind going to the man and woman he had met the day before.

Sam points to the large diesel giant closest to the front porch. "Looks like they're here."

They don't bother closing the doors as the cruiser's thrown into park. They simply exit the vehicle, their guns drawn and aimed as they slowly approach the house, using the parked pickup trucks as cover.

At first, Callen is worried when no sign of life can be seen. For a few long moments, they are met with nothing but stillness and silence. When that silence is broken by gunshots firing at them through the shattered windows, Callen knows things are beyond bad for Kensi and Deeks.

"This is Sheriff Thomas Singer," the sheriff bellows from his position near the first truck's tailgate. "Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up!"

Callen waits, hoping like crazy that the sheriff's method works. But if he's being honest, in his experience, ordering criminals to surrender rarely works.

The only answer the sheriff receives is another round of gunshots. Meeting Sam's eye, Callen signals his plan, letting his partner know he's going around to the back of the house. Sam nods once and moves closer to the house, providing cover for Callen to move into position.

There are tracks in the snow, showing that Callen isn't the first one to circle the house. He stops just short of the back bedroom's window, the one Kensi and Deeks had been sharing. The glass is gone, the pane splintered. Holding his breath, he turns, aiming the gun through the window.

When it's clear that no one is in the room, he levers himself up, letting his thick gloves and coat protect him from the shards of glass.

He hears more gunfire, shortly followed by a shout of pain coming from the living room. Either Sam or the sheriff got a lucky shot. He walks through the bullet-riddled door, and enters the living room to find one man holding his hand to his bleeding arm, a second man firing out the window.

Callen doesn't even bother to announce himself, he simply pulls the trigger, quickly dropping the man who had been sending bullets towards Sam and the sheriff. The man who had been shot in the arm quickly turns, his hand trying to rise to aim at Callen.

But Callen just shakes his head. "Uh-uh," he says, "I wouldn't do that."

"And why not?" the man sneers, only to stop when he feels the muzzle of Sam's gun pressing against the back of his head.

Callen smiles. "That's why."

-:-

The place is destroyed. Papers and torn books litter the floor, furniture turned over, drawers emptied. It had been completely ransacked.

But amongst the mess, there's no sign of Kensi or Deeks. Except for the truck outside and the keys still in the fallen door's lock, there's no sign that they had even been there.

Sheriff Singer picks up an overturned chair and sets it on all four legs. Sam angrily pushes the cuffed man into the seat, making it perfectly clear it's in the man's best interest to cooperate.

"Where are Agent Blye and Detective Deeks?" Sam asks, only to be met with an angry glare.

"I've been shot," the man says, "aren't you supposed to get me to a doctor or something?"

"You'll live, now answer the man," the sheriff orders. He's in no mood to mess around.

Callen steps onto the porch and looks at his phone. One missed call is from Deeks, two from Eric, and one from Hetty. Lifting the phone to his ear, he listens as the first voicemail plays.

"_Callen, there are at least two gunmen at the house. Don't go in alone, it's an ambush._"

Deeks' voice sounds strained, and Callen can clearly hear the sound of gunfire at the end of the message.

The second message is a little more controlled, but just as urgent.

"_Callen, I have no idea where you guys are, but you need to be careful. Deeks and Kensi were attacked by five guys from the militia. Two are still at the house waiting for you. Call me as soon as you get this."_

Callen turns, looking to Sam to see if he had heard. Sam's tense shoulders and dipped head tell Callen that he had.

"Where are the other three men that were with you?" Callen asks, looking at the man in the chair as he steps back inside.

The man doesn't answer, just turns and looks away.

Sam grabs the man by the shoulders, lifting him up. "He asked you a question. I suggest you answer it."

The man actually looks scared for a moment. His nostrils flaring as he studies Sam's face. "They went after the other agents," he finally says in a defeated whisper. "The shots sounded far away."

The sound of cars speeding down the road can be heard through the open door, and Callen turns to see three cruisers making their way down the snowy road.

"I'll deal with all of this," the sheriff says, "You go find your partners."

Callen nods his thanks and once again puts his phone to his ear, Eric's number already dialed.

"_Callen, thank go-…een hurt. There's two…ouse_."

Callen frowns at the spotty connection and the way Eric's voice only comes in fragments.

"Eric, I can't hear you," Callen says into the receiver. He's following Sam towards the barn, the former Navy Seal looking to the ground, the tracks in the snow making a decent trail. "We've already secured the house. We're trying to find Kensi and Deeks now."

"_They're at the neigh-…een hurt. Ambulance is on-…eeks."_

"Who's hurt?" Callen asks, his eyes going to the house in the distance. "Eric? Hello?"

He looks down at the phone, the screen showing that the call had been disconnected, that no bars remain.

"Someone's hurt," Callen says, answering Sam's questioning look. "I think he said they're at the neighbor's."

"He did," Sam answers, pointing to the ground. "Tracks lead that way. Looks like they took fire here," he says, pointing to the corner of the barn and the opened door.

Callen looks at the many bullet holes decorating the side of the large building. The only consolation he feels is that there's no sign of blood, no bodies.

They make quick work crossing the large field. They hear the doors of the police cars slamming in the distance, the sheriff's men having finally arrived as backup.

"G, look," Sam says, slapping his partner on the shoulder and pointing to the large storage structure on the edge of the property.

Callen isn't sure whether it's a man or woman, but it's abundantly clear that there's a body lying at the base of the silo, another about a dozen meters or so on the opposite side.

They don't say anything more until they reach the silo, each breathing a sigh of relief.

"His name's Heath," Callen says, looking at the dead man's face. "He was one of Jett's good friends."

"The body over there isn't Deeks or Kensi," Sam says, gesturing to the other side of the silo.

Callen squints his eyes, and looks to the house and barn. His sight lands on the opened barn door and the mess of tracks leading inside. With Sam at his side, Callen leads the way, quickly raising his gun when the drops of blood come into view. Sam counts on his fingers, indicating that they are to go in on three.

When three gets there, Sam pulls open the door as Callen steps inside, his gun quickly sweeping the opened room.

"Clear," he says, even though Sam can see for himself. The body is on the ground, his pale face covered in blood, his neck darkened from the opened wound. "That's three men," Callen points out, looking to the old tractor and its bloodied attachment.

"They must be in the house," Sam says, speaking of the still missing man and woman.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Deeks is sitting on the floor, his bruised legs bare and tucked beneath him, a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders. His hands are tucked tightly beneath his armpits, trying to grasp at what little body heat they can. Marta had set an old drying rack in front of the fire, ordering him to strip down to his boxers and t-shirt. She had then taken his soaked clothes and laid them out to dry, even going so far as to unlace his boots and pull the tongues out.

His shoulder is leaning against the side of the couch, all his focus on Kensi and making sure she stays awake.

"You're shaking the whole couch," she says from her own little cocoon. Deeks had wrapped a fresh towel around her leg before lifting her from the bathtub and carrying her to the couch. It's a sign of just how hurt Kensi is that she hadn't complained about the escort. Marta had given them both heavy blankets and ordered them to remain by the fire, telling them not to move until help comes before leaving them with her shotgun.

"Sorry," Deeks apologizes, trying in vain to control his shivering. For a little while, the shivering had stopped. He had thought it was thanks to the heated house, but now sitting in front of the fireplace, the shivering has returned, resulting in every bruise and bump on his body screaming in protest.

And there are plenty to speak of.

Having a shovel land against the back of your shoulder will do that. Throw in a fall through the ice and you've got a pretty impressive array of black and blue. Even Deeks' right foot is bruised thanks to the impact of the bullet, the very one still buried deep in the sole of his boot. And he's pretty certain there's a knot forming from Marta's broomstick.

His phone is a goner. He's pretty sure he could bury it beneath all the rice in China, and it still wouldn't work. Kensi's phone is sitting on the coffee table, Marta's shotgun lying right next to it. Nell had promised to call the moment she or Eric got in touch with Sam and Callen. So far, the phone's remained silent.

Deeks wishes he could say the same for their host. As grateful as he is for all she's done, he's certain that gratefulness would expand tenfold if she would kill the noise. Accompanying the occasionally too loud clang and bang of whatever equipment she's using to clean the bathroom, Marta has also turned on the stereo in the kitchen, a loud Italian man's deep baritone drifting through the house, drowning out the sound of the generator, and threatening to rattle the porcelain figures hanging above the fireplace as well as Deeks' eardrum.

"Do you understand this song?" Deeks asks, wanting to keep Kensi talking.

"Yeah," she whispers with a smile, and Deeks is positive if he weren't sitting so close, he wouldn't have heard it, "Do you?"

"My Italian's a little rusty," he lies. He has absolutely no idea what the song is about. A little Spanish, a little Japanese, and a lot of English-add a few dirty words in French and German, and you get the extent of his language repertoire. And thanks to an ex with some interestingly placed tattoos, he can also draw the Chinese symbols for 'Love' and 'Courage'.

"I think you'd like it," Kensi says, making Deeks think her language repertoire knows no bounds. "He's singing to his girlfriend…"

"I was thinking it was a love song," Deeks smiles.

"…about how she can't cook as good as his mother," Kensi finishes, causing Deeks to laugh, which only works to worsen his headache.

"Well, not all women have your culinary skills, Kens." Deeks rolls his neck, trying to stretch out his sore muscles. "Hot Pockets and pre-baked snickerdoodles…" he quips, earning a soft slap to his shoulder.

They fall back into silence, each listening to Marta sing along with the song as she tries to clean the blood from her bathroom floor. Deeks closes his eyes, just for a moment. And then he hears something that doesn't sound quite right, that doesn't flow with the tempo of the music. It's too faint to have been Marta dropping her mop, it sounded like…

"Did you hear that?" he asks, turning to look at Kensi. Kensi furrows her brow.

"Hear what?"

"That…sound," he attempts to clarify as he stands, the heavy blanket pooling around his bare feet. "I thought I heard something."

If Kensi says anything in response, he doesn't hear it. Walking into the kitchen, he looks around, searching for the stereo. It's resting on the counter, right next to an antique looking coffee pot and a high-tech looking food processor.

Deeks stares for all of two seconds at the horde of buttons, none of which read 'mute' or 'off' or 'shut the hell up'. Seeing no other option, he reaches around, grabbing the cord and pulling it from the wall, effectively ending the man's lament of his soon to be ex-girlfriend's lasagna.

He listens again, closing his eyes to focus on the distant sound. It had reminded him of fireworks as a child, of Monday mornings as an adult. He's pretty certain it was gunfire, but now, standing in the kitchen, the cord to the stereo in one hand, the other trying to wave to a yelling Marta to be quiet, Deeks isn't sure he can still hear anything, if he had even heard it at all.

"Marta," Deeks snaps, closing his eyes, this time in an effort to reign in his frustration. Taking a deep breath, he tries again in a much softer tone. "Marta, can we please just leave it off for now?" he asks, trying to sound as nice as possible, throwing in a little of the kicked puppy look for good effect. "My partner has a headache, and I need to make a phone call."

The woman stares at him, her eyes studying the man before her. Deeks is fully aware that he's standing in a stranger's kitchen in nothing more than a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and for a moment, he feels as though he's completely defenseless, as though the entire militia could march through her front door at that exact second and there would be nothing he could do.

"Off button is right here," Marta tells him, apparently having agreed to keep the music off. She points to a button in the upper right corner, the word 'power' printed in tiny black letters. "Go make phone call," she says, turning and going back to the bathroom.

"What did you hear?" Kensi asks as Deeks walks back into the living room.

"I think it was gunfire," Deeks answers as he picks up the phone. He presses four on the speed-dial, and watches as Callen's picture shows on the screen. When it immediately goes to voicemail, Deeks hangs up and forces himself to remember that Kensi probably wouldn't appreciate having her phone thrown into the fire.

"Do you think they're at the house?" Kensi asks as Deeks none to gently lets the phone drop to the table when Sam's number results in another voicemail.

"I should go over there," Deeks says, not really answering her question. He looks to the clothes spread out before the fire.

Kensi, sensing a monumental act of stupidity brewing in her partner's mind, decides to intervene. Deeks is known for his impromptu rescues, choosing to wing it while he's armed with nothing more than charm.

"Deeks, you're keeping your hypothermic ass right here." She props herself up on her elbows and arches one eyebrow threateningly. "Marta doesn't have a car, and there's no way you'd make it across that field without getting shot."

"So, I'm just supposed to sit here and wait?" he asks incredulously.

Kensi doesn't change her facial expression as she answers. "Yes."

His hands resting on his hips, Deeks chews his lower lip as he studies the pattern in the carpet. Seeing only logic in Kensi's argument, he decides to change the topic. "It's been over fifteen minutes. Shouldn't the ambulance be here by now?"

"We're in the middle of the country, Deeks. It's gonna take them a minute to get here."

Deeks sits down on the edge of the couch, the toes of Kensi's elf-covered socks brushing against his hip. "Fifteen minutes is a long time to wait for help."

"That's why we did the sutures," she tells him, burying her toes beneath his leg for warmth. "The bleeding's stopped. We're okay."

Deeks is about to mutter a sarcastic 'for now', but stops when a shadow passes by the window. He can't help the small jump that comes as Kensi's phone begins to vibrate, Eric's picture lighting up the screen.

Deeks hands the phone to Kensi as he grabs the shotgun and presses the stock into his shoulder.

As Sam and Callen barge into the room, each aiming their guns at Deeks as he aims the Italian woman's shotgun at them, Deeks knows that this is a moment that they'll all be talking about for years to come.

"Yeah, Eric. They're here now as a matter of fact," Kensi says, looking at the three men still staring at one another.

"Took 'em long enough," Deeks finally says, lowering the shotgun and smiling at the sight of his two friends alive and seemingly well, completely free of any recent bullet holes.

Sam and Callen lower their guns, a siren sounding in the distance alerting them to the arrival of the ambulance.

Deeks' smile grows as Marta enters the room, her broomstick held out in front of her as she studies the two new arrivals.

Callen stands in shocked silence as he watches the woman look to Deeks questioningly. When Deeks waves her down, uttering the words 'polizia' and 'friends', Callen notices that Deeks isn't wearing any pants. The detective's shins are an ugly shade of purple, deep bruising running the length from Deeks' ankles to knees.

Kensi's on the couch, her face pale and dirty, the phone still to her ear as she continues to speak with Eric.

Looking to Sam and seeing the same sense of bewilderment on his face, Callen asks, "So, what did we miss?"

TBC…


	6. Discount Information at the Quickie Mart

A/N: _I want to say that I have read every review, and want to thank each and every one of you. I really appreciate all of your opinions and feedback on my writing. It was a real ego-booster that was much needed. I haven't had time to respond, because my sister decided to drive my dad's truck into a tree. She's okay, but that's also the reason this story wasn't posted yesterday._

_Oh, and I might have lied when I said this was only going to have seven chapters…_

Chapter 6: Discount Information at the Quickie Mart

The nearest hospital is in Helena, nearly two hours away on a good day. Factor in roadblocks and icy conditions, you're looking at a pretty lengthy road trip. Of course, there was mention of taking the chopper for another spin, but as luck would have it, there really wasn't any need—at least none that Kensi could see. Besides, the police chopper isn't really equipped for patient transport.

Turns out, Marta is actually Marta Wilson, also known as Mrs. Dr. Robert Wilson, the wife of the local general practitioner. Being neighbors with the sheriff, Dr. Wilson was only a phone call away, and he was more than prepared to accommodate the lovely Agent Blye at the local clinic.

By the time the ambulance pulled into the front, Dr. Wilson already had a room prepped and ready.

Deeks was right. Those morphine shots are pretty awesome. Add that with a little warm saline and a couple pints of the Red Cross' finest, and you're looking at a pretty content Kensi Blye.

Except for the whole bed ridden thing. That and the holes in her leg, she could do without.

"I believe this is what you would call an impasse." Deeks is lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head as the other's held straight, trying not to bump the IV. Dr. Wilson, or Grizz as he's known by the locals, had been adamant about checking Deeks over, going so far as to share the love and give him a little of the warm saline after hearing of his little trip into the doctor's pond. Along with a shot of antibiotics in the rear end to help fight his worsening cold, Deeks had been given a cot, conveniently placed in his partner's room.

"Do you remember when Hetty said you had a tendency to be unreasonable?" Kensi asks, "_This _is what she was talking about."

Deeks sits up, his tone loosing that air of playfulness it had a moment earlier. "Kens, I'm not about to leave you all alone."

"Sheriff Singer is posting a man at my door. I won't be all alone," Kensi says, only repeating what she had said earlier.

Deeks looks at the ground and cautiously rubs at the tape holding the IV port in place. "We both know one deputy isn't going to cut it. They sent five men. If my math's right, that leaves thirty-two that are still capable of carry a gun."

"So you're willing to let Sam and Callen go after those thirty-two men all alone?" Kensi counters. Her coloring has improved since being under the doctor's care, but Deeks knows the flush in her cheeks is due to her rising temper.

"If the alternative is leaving my partner defenseless, then yes," Deeks answers without a moment's hesitation. He can feel his own cheeks flushing as his strained voice tries to get his point across.

Kensi glares. "Since when am I defenseless?" she challenges.

"Since you decided to get on the bad side of a cheese grater." Deeks stands now, his arms spreading wide as he stretches sore muscles. Truth be told, he's torn. Logically, he can see reasons to both stay with Kensi and head out with Sam and Callen. While Sam and Callen are both more than capable of holding their own, there is strength in numbers. But this clinic isn't exactly Fort Knox, and the thought of Kensi being stranded here with nothing more than one of Sheriff Singer's men posted out front is more than a little disconcerting.

"Kensi," Deeks continues, determined to make her see reason, "you can't even walk right now. Please explain to me how you're planning on stopping any armed gunmen from coming in and finishing what they started?"

Kensi scoots towards the head of the bed, letting the pillows support her as she sits up. "Okay, first of all, my leg is hurt, not amputated. I can still walk, it'll just be a little uncomfortable. Secondly, how do _you_ plan on stopping any armed gunmen that decide to walk through that door?"

When Deeks doesn't have an immediate answer, Kensi softens her tone, aiming for understanding rather than angry condescension. "Deeks, the sooner we finish this, the sooner we can all go home."

"And the best way to do that is if I help Sam and Callen," Deeks finishes for her, already knowing what she's about to say. After all, they've been having this argument for almost ten minutes now, and they're starting to repeat themselves.

A soft knock at the door captures both their attentions, temporarily putting the argument on hold. "Am I interrupting?" the doctor asks as he walks in, Deeks' freshly dried clothes neatly folded in his hands.

"Nah, doc. What's up?" Deeks asks, sitting back down on the cot.

"I just figured you'd want to put these on while they're still warm." Grizz gestures to the clothes with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he does so. The doctor's beard is thick, but well maintained, and Deeks secretly suspects it to be the source of the doctor's nickname. While Grizz may look intimidating, so far he's come off as an oversized teddy bear.

Deeks gratefully takes the clothes and sits them on his lap, the warmth from the heated clothes radiating through the borrowed sweatpants to his thighs. Suddenly, Deeks wants nothing more but to be buried in his clothes as memories of being a child and jumping onto a pile of recently laundered towels floats through his mind. "Thanks, doc," Deeks says.

Grizz simply nods, his eyes crinkling with another smile as he reaches for a pair of latex gloves. "I think you've been hooked to the line long enough. What do you say we get that IV outta your arm?"

Deeks gladly agrees and prepares himself for the feel of the needle sliding out of his skin. Some say it's an irrational fear, but in Deeks' opinion, being afraid of something that pierces your skin and causes pain is significantly justified.

Albeit, the extreme relief Deeks feels once the needle is completely removed, the band-aid in place might be a little exaggerated.

"Alright Agent Blye," Grizz says, removing his gloves and dropping them into an orange bin near the door, "are you feeling any better?"

Kensi's already realized trying to be indifferent towards the good doctor is about like trying to be indifferent toward one's favorite grandfather. "Much," she tells him, though she looks pointedly at Deeks, wanting her partner to realize that just as much as the doctor.

Grizz washes his hands before sitting on the side of the bed, his fingers reaching into the pocket of his coat for a penlight. "Well, that's real good to hear. There's a lot of important stuff wrapped up in that leg of yours, yet you managed to miss it all."

"Just out of pure luck," Deeks mutters as he changes into the warm blue jeans, and Kensi can't really argue. It had been pure luck. Everything that happened with the militiamen, from the moment the trucks pulled into the driveway to the moment Deeks walked through the door and met Marta and her broomstick, it had all been luck and a few well aimed bullets. And one flathead screwdriver.

"So Detective," Grizz says, once again addressing Deeks even as he continues to look Kensi over, "I hear my wife got you good with that broomstick of hers."

"She may have gotten _one_ lucky shot," Deeks lies, his hand automatically rising to feel the discernable bump.

Grizz simply laughs, asking Kensi to squeeze his hands before turning to Deeks, "Marta's actually pretty tame compared to her mother. That old woman could really pack a wallop. Hell, half the time I thought she was literally trying to beat the stupid out of people."

"Marta might have had to hit a little harder if that was her goal." Kensi says it with a smile, not wanting Deeks to think she's being sincere. Deeks just laughs a sardonic laugh, fully aware that his partner's just pushing his buttons. He'll give her this win, if for no other reason than she can probably fit a couple of pencils through her thigh.

"Hey doc, you see where our partners went off to?" Deeks figures it probably wouldn't hurt to get Sam and Callen's opinion on whether or not he should stay behind and stand guard or if he should accompany them throughout the rest of the investigation.

Even if he were to agree with Kensi and choose to go with Sam and Callen, there's still the issue of whether or not the guys will want Deeks as the third wheel. Last time hadn't exactly been pleasant in Deeks' opinion.

"If I'm not mistaken, they're still interrogating your shooter." Grizz says, his face turning serious. "He's down the hall waiting to be transported to the county jail."

Grizz stands and pats Kensi on the shoulder, his crinkle-eyed smile making a comeback. "I must say, I usually treat broken bones and stomach bugs. But you lot show up and I get gunshot wounds and perforated thighs."

"Sorry about that," Kensi says, her hand ghosting over her now swollen leg, the bulging bandages visible beneath the thin blanket.

"Don't be," Grizz tells her, sounding shocked that she would feel the need to apologize. "This is the most fun I've had since Jenna Lewis' water broke at the Fourth of July picnic."

Deeks laughs, his earlier feeling of hatred for the small town slowly dissipating within the doctor's presence. "Yeah, Kens here likes to keep people on their toes."

"And I'm guessing you're at the top of her list, am I right son?" Grizz says with a knowing smirk. He may have just met the pair, but he's fairly certain these two make an interesting team.

"Only when she's trying to boss me around," Deeks tells him, and Kensi quickly raises her hand, stopping him before he can continue.

"I'm not bossing you around," she defends, "I'm just stopping you from doing something stupid."

Grizz laughs, full and hearty, the kind of laugh that makes your eyes water and leaves you gasping for air. "You two make me think of me and Marta."

"Except we're not married," Kensi points out, "we're just partners."

"Agent, marriage is a partnership, too," Grizz tells her, his laugh slowly dying down. "Give it enough time and there will hardly be anything that you don't know about one another. And a word of advice," he says, looking to Deeks, "It'd probably make your part a whole lot easier not to argue with her."

Deeks dips his head and laughs. Apparently, his and Kensi's argument hadn't been as private as originally thought. "I bet she'd like that," he says, causing Kensi to smile triumphantly.

Grizz nods, looking back and forth between the two. "Just trust me son, learning when to give in and choose your battles is the key to a happy relationship. It'll be a lot easier just to pretend she's always right."

"Or at least let her think she is," Sam says as he steps through the opened door, causing Kensi's smile to falter.

"You getting love advice from the doctor, Deeks?" Callen walks in right behind Sam, his arms crossing over his chest as he leans against the doorframe.

"Not love advice," Deeks quickly corrects, "partnership advice."

"Hey, like I said before, marriage is a partnership, and I've got nearly forty years of experience," Grizz tells them with a wink, "Just because you're not wearing a couple of rings and spouting out "I love you's" doesn't mean the same rules can't apply."

When Grizz notices the laughing smirks on Sam and Callen's faces, he quickly points to them. "The same can be said for you two gentlemen."

This time, Deeks actually snorts as he tries to reign in his laughter at the thought of the doctor telling Sam and Callen that their partnership is like a marriage.

"Laugh it up, Deeks," Sam says with a dimpled smile, the promise of a friendly threat in his eye. The doctor just shakes his head, a soft smile playing out beneath his beard at the sight of the four team members and their bantering antics.

"I'll be out front if you need me," he says as he walks to the door, stopping to turn back to Deeks. "Detective, I'm going to write you a prescription before you leave, something that'll help with that cold."

"Thanks, Doc," Deeks says, suddenly reminded of the soreness in his throat, something that has only intensified since his run through the arctic wasteland.

Callen straightens and lets the doctor pass through the door, thanking him as he does so. When he first arrived at the doctor's house, he hadn't been relieved by what he saw. Hearing that Kensi's leg was the source of all the blood found between the barn and the house had only made things worse. And while Deeks wasn't bleeding, he hadn't looked much better.

At first, Callen had been a little skeptical when he heard that they were going to a clinic, his mind immediately conjuring a generic doc-in-the-box with doctors who specialized in runny noses. However, his fears were quickly relieved once arriving and finding that the 'clinic' was actually a small town hospital, perfectly capable of performing any procedure short of surgery.

And though Kensi and Deeks are both cleaned up, traces of blood completely washed away, Callen isn't fooled.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, making it clear he's asking them both.

Kensi points to one of the bags attached to the IV line. "Not really feeling much of anything."

"Better than the alternative," Sam tells her, as Callen looks to Deeks, expecting an answer, preferably of the non-smartass variety.

"Oh, I'm feeling peachy," Deeks says, and Callen knows he was asking too much. "Fell through a pond, a _frozen_ pond in the middle of winter. But it's all good. Doc gave me a shot right in the ass, should stop the oncoming pneumonia."

"You don't have pneumonia," Kensi tells him with a roll of her eyes.

"That's why I said 'oncoming'. Learn to listen, partner," Deeks says.

"How are your legs?" Sam asks, his eyes dropping to Deeks' shins as though he can see through the denim fabric.

"I can walk," Deeks answers despite the fact that he feels as though his legs could snap in half with any amount of pressure. Grizz had given him some heavy-duty ibuprofen, Deeks is just waiting for it to kick in.

"Which is why he should go with the two of you," Kensi says, resuming their conversation from before.

Deeks rolls his eyes this time, shaking his head at his partner before turning to Sam and Callen. "_Or_, I could stay here and help the deputy keep guard."

Both Kensi and Deeks look at Callen, each waiting for him to pick a side. Caught off guard by the sudden pressure to decide, Callen takes a step back, his brow furrowed as he looks to Sam. Sam just stares back, clearly amused.

The ringing of Callen's phone holds off any decision making.

"Yeah, Eric," Callen says, putting the phone on speaker.

"So I ran that name you guys gave me, the one Deeks and Kensi got from their waitress," they can hear the sound of typing as Eric speaks. "He seems like a pretty up and up kind of guy, not the type to aim a shotgun unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily?" Deeks asks.

"Well, he does own a few…" Eric explains, the typing slowing as he answers. "I'm sending it all to your phones."

On cue, Kensi and Sam's phone vibrate, the files arriving right on time. Deeks picks up Kensi's phone and begins to read Clive Jacobs' file. As the picture pops up, Deeks' eyebrows raise in surprise. "Wait a minute. I've met this guy."

"Well, I guess that settles it then," Callen says.

"What do you mean?" Deeks' asks with a nervous smile.

"You're coming with us."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Sam steers the truck onto the road, the heater turned on high. With the exception of two bullet holes in the driver's side door, the truck had made it through the two firefights unscathed.

Sam looks in the rearview mirror, his eyes searching for Deeks in the back seat of the extended cab. Even though the sheriff had promised to assign two deputies to Kensi's security detail, Deeks is still in a sullen mood, concern for his partner to blame.

"Kensi's capable of taking care of herself, Deeks," Sam says, his eyes going back to the road. "She's not going to let an injury stop her from kicking ass."

Deeks allows one corner of his mouth to curve in a smile. It's the truth. Kensi's already proven that in the past. Fishing in his pocket for one of the cough drops the nurse at the front desk had given him, Deeks forces himself to lighten up, to trust that Kensi's going to be okay.

The gas station is a little more crowded than the last time Deeks had visited, the absence of a blizzard allowing more patrons to venture out. Sam parks the truck in the same spot Deeks had the night before.

Clive looks up when the three men walk into the store, his hand already reaching to turn down the volume on the TV as they walk towards the counter.

"You survived the blizzard," he jokes, recognizing the third man as the frozen city boy. "How's those hand warmers treatin' ya?"

"They're awesome," Deeks says, "Thank you."

"Clive Jacobs?" Callen asks, holding up his badge. Clive nods, and his smile falters. "NCIS, your daughter told us you might be able to help us out."

"And what exactly did she say I could do?" Clive's smile is gone, but his tone is still friendly. As long as he doesn't pull a gun out from behind that counter, Deeks is good.

"She said you could give us some information on Jett Hawkins and his militia," Deeks answers. This is pretty much their last shot before walking back to square one.

Clive rolls his eyes very much like his daughter had at the mention of Jett. "I don't know about his militia, but I know a thing or two about Jett."

"Lindsey says the two of you grew up together," Deeks begins, giving the man a place to start.

"Yeah, we weren't friends or anything, but we knew one another. I went to school with he and his brother." Clive's shoulders drop as though the memory is exhausting.

"Jett Hawkins has a brother?" Callen asks. None of their research on the man had said anything about a brother.

"Well, half-brother," Clive corrects, dropping his voice to a whisper as though what he's about to say is scandalous. "Same daddy, two different moms. Didn't matter that Daddy was still married." He raises his eyebrows, silently saying, _"If you know what I mean."_

Clive leans back on his stool, his fingers interlocking before him as he settles in to tell a good story. "His name wasn't on the birth certificate, but everybody knew Jeffrey Hawkins was Kade's daddy, too."

"Kade have a last name?" Callen asks, his mind reeling. _It's just a coincidence_, he tells himself.

"Lawton," Clive says, and Callen's suddenly reminded that there's no such thing as coincidences in their line of work. "Kade Lawton. But he ain't here anymore. He and his momma moved out west about twenty years ago, California or something or other."

"Los Angeles actually," Callen tells him. Lawton's the leader of the militia group based out of southern California, the one who had sent Callen to Montana, apparently to help out his brother. Seems like the love of the militia is in the blood. "Lawton's involved in an NCIS investigation."

"No kidding," Clive says, his voice rising in surprise. "What for?"

"Suspected weapons trafficking," Callen answers, "He's running a militia group back in California."

Clive just presses his lips together and shakes his head. "Now that I believe. That boy always did have it out for authority. Didn't like being bossed around at all. He was always the one to keep Jett in line though, have to give him that."

"Sheriff says Jett's only been in charge for a little over a year," Deeks says, securing the cough drop between his cheek and teeth. "Who was in charge before then?"

"There wasn't really a leader," Clive tells him, "But Jett gets back from visiting his brother and decides it's time to get things organized. I guess he got the idea from Kade." Clive shakes his head again, this time in derision.

"What?" Sam asks, catching onto the action.

"It's just…Jett Hawkins isn't really a militia mentality kind of guy. Don't get me wrong, the guy was born to rebel, it's just that…he's more of a cult leader than anything else."

Callen can feel that little line between his eyebrows deepening as he frowns. "A cult?"

"Yeah. It's like the men in this so-called militia were just waiting for someone to come along and give 'em all something to do. And when Jett came back, spouting his mouth off, talking about organizing a group for the greater good, they followed him like a pack of hungry dogs looking for the same bone. Even asked me if I wanted to join."

"And I'm guessing you said no?" Callen smiles, already knowing the answer based off the man's offended frown.

"Boy, I'm a fifteen years retired Marine. In my opinion, these militiamen aren't anything more than a bunch of pissed off, lazy men who would never cut it in the military. Of course I said no."

"Hoorah," Sam smirks.

"Damn straight," Clive smirks back.

"Do you know where Jett or his men could be hiding?" Callen asks, his fingers crossed.

"Not exactly," Clive says, causing the three men to silently sigh in defeat. "But I know that Kade Lawton's mother had some family land next town over." Clive smiles when he sees the interested looks on the three men's faces. "It's all run down, but definitely big enough for a bunch men to hide out."

Now they're getting somewhere.

TBC…


	7. Showdown at the Hoedown

_A/N: I feel as though I should be apologizing for the titles to these chapters…_

Chapter 7: Showdown at the Hoedown

"Run down" aren't exactly the words Callen would use to define the old Lawton family homestead. "Dilapidated shit hole" is a more accurate description, at least from what he can see. He and two officers are on the edge of the property, each lying on their stomachs as Callen looks through a pair of binoculars, mentally counting the number of men lounging around the property, all of them recognizable as militiamen.

"It's them," he says, signaling for the two officers to follow him back to the rendezvous point. Unlike at the sheriff's house, there's a series of scattered trees about the Lawton property, but not nearly enough to provide cover for the large team of law enforcement officers parked nearly a mile away.

The chopper, while slightly farther away, is ready to go. Tactical units, state police, and deputies sit ready, all prepared to move as soon as Callen gives the word. Not having any cover, the moment they approach the house, militiamen are going to start fleeing. It'll be the human equivalent of stepping on an anthill.

Callen jogs the last few yards to the truck. He swaps the binoculars for a rifle, double-checking that he has extra ammo as he secures his SIG near his lower back. "They're there. I counted at least seventeen outside."

"Radio the chopper," Sheriff Singer tells one of the men behind him. Deeks adjusts his vest, tightly securing the Kevlar in place before popping another cough drop. He slowly points his toe towards the ground, stretching the bruised shin, and trying his best not to show how uncomfortable the act is.

"Deeks? You good?" Callen asks, tossing the detective an extra clip.

Deeks easily catches it with one hand, "Always."

"Then lets do this," Callen smiles crookedly. He jumps in the bed of the pickup truck, Deeks and Sam right behind him. Within seconds, the entire convoy is barreling towards the militia's newest headquarters.

-:-

Just as predicted, men begin to run as soon as the chopper is heard, the sight of the many trucks, cars, and vans speeding towards the old house causing fear amongst the supposedly stoic men.

Gunfire erupts almost immediately, many of the men grabbing nearby weapons and firing at the oncoming vehicles. Snipers in the chopper begin to fire back, lending a much needed hand to the officers out in the open.

Deeks would be lying if he said he wasn't a little surprised to see a handful of the men lay down their weapons and surrender, deciding that life is more important than any political statement.

Others, however, continue to fight back. Men run to parked trucks, not realizing that Sam and Deeks have already taken out the tires with a few well-placed bullets. Cries of pain and frustration fill the air as officers take aim.

Callen jumps out of the bed of the truck, his eyes focused on the front door and the battering ram SWAT is using to bust inside.

The moment Deeks lands on his feet, he has to grab the side of the truck to keep him from hitting his knees as the bruises flare to life. He follows Callen, using the rifle to shoot at the men dumb enough to stand in front of the windows on the upper floor. By the time the two make it to the porch, SWAT has already penetrated the house.

Callen loses sight of Sam, but can hear Deeks behind him, covering his six. The front room is clear, a few bodies littering the floor as SWAT moves in a single file up the stairs, the leader of the samba line ordering militiamen to lay down their weapons.

Looking to the kitchen door, Callen steadies his rifle and checks to secure that his temporary partner is still at his back. Kicking the door in catches the three men off guard.

Callen easily drops the first one before the man has time to pull his trigger. It's the second and third that cause problems.

Deeks and man number two pull their triggers at the same time, Deeks' bullet landing center mass, dropping the man dead just as his bullet hits Callen.

Being shot sucks out loud, no matter how it happens. Admittedly, being shot while wearing a bulletproof vest is preferable to being shot while not, but still…

Callen lands hard on his back, his breath forced out in a painful huff. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, his mind trying its best to force his lungs to take in air. He isn't sure if it's the noise, or just the innate sense of 'needing to know', but Callen opens his eyes, his head turning to watch Deeks' struggle with the third man.

Having used up the ammo for the rifle in his hands, man number three has taken to using the gun like a baseball bat, his angry mind interpreting Deeks' head as the ball. Ducking out of the way, Deeks lets his own rifle fall to the floor as he reaches behind for his Glock. Before fingers can reach metal, the man lunges forward, the act bringing them closer together and making the gun/bat difficult to use.

Deeks grabs the man's wrists and leans forward, spitting the cough drop right in the man's face. If Callen could breathe, he'd laugh at the look of confusion and disgust the man makes as he tries to identify the spit covered projectile.

Deeks quickly swipes his foot behind the man's leg, bringing it forward in a move that would make Sensei Sam Hanna proud of his spry pupil. And Sam thought Deeks wasn't paying attention…

As soon as the man's ass hits the floor, Deeks once again reaches for his gun. But the man must have ninja in his blood, because the next thing Deeks knows, the guy's wielding a carving knife, his aim focused on Deeks' lower stomach.

As the shots ring out, the knife falling just short of hitting that exposed area of skin between Deeks' vest and belt, Deeks stares in shocked gratitude. He turns his head, seeing a very haggard looking Callen lying on the ground, one arm extended as he tries to hold his gun steady. Smoke is still emanating from the muzzle as Deeks mutters a quiet but sincere "Thanks."

Callen just gives him a thumbs up and lets his head fall back to the floor as he once again tries to catch his breath. His hands fumble to the area just below the 'I' on his vest, his fingernails scratching at the lodged bullet.

Deeks limps forward, the damage to his shins finally making a liar out of him. "You good?" Deeks asks, reaching out and grabbing Callen's wrist, helping him to stand.

Callen leans against the wall as he mutters a pain filled "Always."

Deeks just laughs, knowing he's having his own words thrown back in his face.

"Nice move with the cough drop," Callen says, lifting his hand and watching as it shakes, the adrenaline and nerves making his pinky dance.

"Not really," Deeks tells him, mirroring Callen's stance as he leans against the wall, "that was my last one."

Callen laughs, instantly regretting it as he's reminded he most likely has a bruised rib.

The sounds of gunfire begin to quiet, deep yells of 'Clear' and 'Secure' taking their place as the last of the militiamen are captured or killed.

-:-:-:-

Deeks keeps quiet as he sits on the tailgate, his feet hanging over the side, dangling just above the ground. Callen's resting on the bumper of the ambulance, his shirt lifted as the medic wraps his ribs. Sam's rubbing tiredly at his eyes as they all listen to the officer tell them the bad news.

"There are five men unaccounted for," the officer begins, "and it looks like someone built a bomb out back."

"Define 'looks like'." Callen lowers his shirt as soon as the medic finishes securing the wrap in place.

"Explosive residue, tape, wires, and a whole lot of handwritten notes on how to assemble a bomb," the officer replies.

"But no actual bomb?" Sam asks.

"No bomb," the officer confirms.

Callen inhales tentatively, his hand pressing against his tender chest. "Well, this just gets better and better."

"Then what I'm about to say will fit right in," Sheriff Singer says sarcastically, the corners of his mouth turned down. "An FBI agent just showed up demanding to speak to whoever's in charge. Better look sharp, boys. He's on his way."

Looking up, they spot a tall man grabbing a folder from the hood of a dark SUV, his coat thick and heavy, the emblem for the FBI printed on the front of the left pocket. He's a handsome man, his hair dark brown and clean cut.

Catching sight of Sheriff Singer, the agent smiles and walks forward, the folder still in his hand. Callen stands, preparing to play nice, or at least pretend to.

Just before Callen opens his mouth to speak, the agent looks down at the folder in his hands, licking one finger before turning the page, his eyes squinted as he quickly reads. "Special Agent G Callen, yes?" he finally says, looking up and meeting Callen's eyes. When Callen gives a terse nod in answer, the agent's smile widens as he extends his hand.

"Special Agent Frankie Waters, FBI," he says, shaking Callen's hand. "You gentlemen are with NCIS, is that right?"

"Yep," Callen says, popping the 'p', the importance of playing nice slowing slipping from the forefront of his mind.

"Well, as I'm sure you've already figured out, this isn't exactly an NCIS case," Agent Waters tells them, wrapping one hand around his wrist as he closes the folder in front of him, falling to parade rest.

"If it weren't for us, you wouldn't even know there was a case here," Sam tells him, already knowing where the conversation's heading. Agent Waters forces his smile to stay in place, the left corner of his mouth twitching as he looks at Sam, before turning back to Callen.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but there isn't a marine or naval base in Montana is there, Agent Callen?"

Callen runs his tongue along his chapped lips before answering reluctantly. "No, there is not."

"So, explain to me why agents for the _Naval_ Criminal Investigative Services are here, and working on a political assassination threat at that?" His face turns serious, his eyes squinting as he leans forward, slightly turning his head like he's trying to hear better. Not enough to be overly dramatic, but still enough to piss Callen off.

"We were brought here by another case—" Callen begins, only to be cut off by Agent Waters.

Waters tilts his head back knowingly, as though he's just remembered something important, and when he speaks, Callen has no problem detecting the patronizing tone. "Riiight, something about missing Navy weapons. Yeah, my director spoke to your director." Agent Waters smiles now, softening his voice with a mock friendliness. "Well, other than two men who grew up together doing one another a favor, this really isn't any of NCIS' business, so we'll be taking over now."

"These men tried to kill us," Deeks says, finally speaking up, "They put my partner in the hospital."

"Which probably wouldn't have happened had you called us from the beginning instead of trying to handle it yourselves," Agent Waters says harshly, insinuating that Deeks and the others are to blame for Kensi being hurt. "And you're Detective Martin Deeks, right? With LAPD? Tell me _Detective_, how are you even involved in any of this?"

"He's a member of our team, he goes where we go," Callen quickly says, sensing a strong wave of anger building in Deeks. Callen doesn't blame the guy.

"Well, that might mean something if _you_ had any real reason to be here." Waters looks pointedly at Callen, and Callen has to remind himself that Hetty might not appreciate it if he were to knock that pretty-boy smile right off Agent Waters' face. "But like I said, the FBI will be taking over from here. We've already alerted the governor to the possibility of a bomb threat and all the necessary precautions are being taken to secure the state capital. Now, I know you gentlemen must be dying to get back home so, I'll leave you to it."

Agent Waters turns to walk away. He stops after a few steps, turning back to face Callen, Sam, and Deeks one last time, a self-satisfied smile in full play. "Oh, and gentleman, the FBI appreciates all of your hard work." It sounds scripted and cheap, like when the cashier at McDonald's tells you to have a nice day.

As Agent Waters walks back to the large SUV, Deeks grits his teeth and angrily releases the Velcro on his vest. "You think Hetty would be mad if I shot him?"

Callen smiles a little, thinking maybe he's been a bad influence on Deeks. "I won't tell her."

"Hell son, I'll let you use my gun," Sheriff Singer says as they all continue to watch Agent Waters take over the scene.

Sam gently kicks the tire of the ambulance, knocking the snow from his boot. He squints his eyes, presses his lips together, and lets out a tired huff of air. "Well, this sucks."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Kensi slowly taps her right foot to the beat of the song she can hear playing from the front desk. It's an old country song, one of those with a steel guitar and a deep twang about broken hearts, not anything she would normally listen to.

The guys have been gone a while now, at least long enough for her to have sat through a couple bags of fluids. The nurse had come in shortly after the second bag had emptied, the machine on the IV stand beeping and threatening to drive Kensi insane. Nurse Brenda had quickly disconnected the IV lines, leaving the port in place should they need it again, and helped Kensi to the bathroom.

After making certain that she had a good handle on the crutches, Nurse Brenda had left Kensi to her own devices, suggesting that she watch some TV and get some rest. Kensi had nodded, given her thanks, and sat back to begin the fine art of going stir-crazy.

She had been borderline insane with boredom back at the farmhouse, but this…this is just unnecessary. Unlike a normal hospital, the clinic is relatively quiet, the only sounds coming from the distant radio, the volume turned down low enough that Kensi has to strain to make out the words.

Kensi pushes her head back into the pillow, frowning at the ceiling as she once again feels that uncomfortable pressure in her lower stomach, reminding her that she's just had several bags of fluids and assuring her that her kidneys are working properly.

Deciding waiting will only make things worse, she pushes herself into a seated position, the hand with the IV port reaching for the crutches leaning against the wall. The room is small, the bathroom no more than six steps away. But seeing as how Kensi can only use one leg, the other currently throbbing a soulful beat that would give that country song a run for its money, those six steps might as well be a thousand.

Luckily, the bathroom is equipped for people in her position. Handles are secured to almost every surface, helping to leverage herself up and down without having to put pressure on her left leg.

She's halfway back to the bed when the door opens, a tall man wearing scrubs walking in, his smile friendly and calm. Kensi wobbles a little on her crutches as she's caught off guard, not having expected the sudden interruption.

"Uh, hi," she says, reaching for the bed to steady her balance. She knows Grizz had mentioned at least one other doctor that worked at the clinic as well as a few nurses, and as the man steps forward, the soles of his sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor, Kensi tries to recall whether or not Grizz had mentioned any names.

The man doesn't say anything, he just continues to smile, an act that sets Kensi's spidey senses to tingling. As the man struggles to put on a pair of latex gloves, those spidey senses go into overdrive.

Kensi's standing at the foot of the bed, equidistant from any source of help, the nurse's button being at the head of the bed, the emergency string behind the bathroom door. For reasons she can't quite name, she wants to see Nurse Brenda, wants Grizz to walk in and explain why the nice man in scrubs can't even put on a pair of gloves.

The man had closed the door to her room, but Kensi can still hear the faint sound of music, her ears straining for any sign that the deputies are on their way. The men had been stationed at the front desk, a relatively short distance away from Kensi's room.

From what she had seen upon her arrival at the clinic, there is only one entrance to the hall she's on, meaning the scrubbed man would have had to walk past the deputies standing guard.

"What happened to Nurse Brenda?" Kensi asks, trying to sound friendly and not at all suspicious. The man looks up, one glove finally on.

"I'm second shift," he tells her, and Kensi can't tell whether or not he's lying. "I'm just here to change your bandages."

Seeing no supplies, no extra gauze, or even a band-aid, Kensi decides that yes, he is lying.

"Why don't you lie down," Nurse Man says, popping the second glove into place. Kensi smiles, gripping the crutches tightly as she nods and slowly makes her way to the head of the bed and the much wanted call button.

Apparently, pressing the call button must be an obvious choice, because no sooner does Kensi starts to move does the man reach forward for the device. He moves it out of the way, under the guise of clearing the bed. He even pulls the blanket back, smiling the entire time.

The man starts to circle the bed, his hand reaching into his pocket. Kensi knows that if she's going to act, now's the time to do it because there is no way in hell she's lying down for this guy. Playtime's over.

Shifting her hold on one of the crutches, Kensi bites the inside of her cheek in preparation for the pain she's sure she's about to feel the moment she tries to run. Any nagging thoughts that the man might actually be a nurse disappear as the crutch meets crotch, the syringe he had been pulling from his pocket falling to the floor.

Happy to have proof that she hadn't in fact just taken out one of Grizz's nurses, Kensi begins to hobble away, yelling as she begins to round the bed, her eye on the door.

"A little help in here—"

Her plea is cut short as her right crutch is pulled out from beneath her, the faux-nurse man grabbing hold of the bottom as Kensi attempts her escape. Without the support on her right side, Kensi hits the ground, biting her tongue with the impact as she unsuccessfully tries to keep from crying out from the pain.

The man grabs her around her middle, flipping her over like she's nothing more than a rag doll and straddles her waist, his knees squeezing her ribs, trying to keep her from squirming as he reaches forward and grabs her throat, cutting off the most recent call for help.

Kensi wants to listen for the sounds of feet running towards her room, for a sign that she isn't about to die, but all she can hear is the sound of her breathing, the echo of her heartbeat in her ears. It's like she's stuck in a tunnel, the sound muffled but amplified all at once.

She reaches up, her fingers clawing aimlessly at the man's neck, at his face, leaving angry red scratches on his skin. In a moment of clarity, Kensi calms her frantic hands and focuses on his eyes, namely on digging her thumbs into his sockets.

Suddenly, she can hear the running, the yelling outside her door as the man above her releases his hold on her airway. Much like she had with the screwdriver and the man in the barn, she reaches to the side, blindly grabbing whatever's in reach.

Although bigger than a screwdriver and much more difficult to work with, Kensi uses the crutch to her advantage, swinging fast and hard at the man's head, sending him into the foot of the bed's frame. As the door flies open, she lifts the crutch one more time, and just for good measure and because he's pissed her off, she brings it down hard.

The man's eyes roll back in his head, his chin falling to his chest as his legs still. Kensi feels hands beneath her armpits as someone drags her away, giving the deputies room to secure the now unconscious man. Better late than never.

"Agent, look at me," Grizz says, his eyes crinkled, this time in concern as he places his hand on the back of Kensi's neck. She does as she's told, squeezing the man's shoulder.

"I'm okay," she says, not wanting the shock and adrenaline to wear off, not wanting to feel the pain they're masking.

A deep moan and a muttered curse cause them to look at the man on the floor. He blinks a few times, his eyes rolling like loose marbles. "Wha'appened?" he asks as one of the deputies lay him flat on the ground.

Grizz looks at the man, his hand still on Kensi's neck. Kensi can feel him shaking, and she's suddenly reminded that this is probably the most action he's seen since the Fourth of July picnic.

"Well son," Grizz tells the would-be assassin, "I believe this young lady just opened up a can of whoop ass."

TBC…


	8. Six Feet Below

_A/N: We're approaching the homestretch, people. Maybe a couple of more chapters to go._

Chapter 8: Six Feet Below and Nowhere To Go But Up

Nicholas James is a very unhappy camper. At the moment, he's got a headache the size of Texas, one testicle bigger than the other, and a strong desire to tell everyone to go to Hell.

He's handcuffed to the bed, a bag of ice placed delicately on his crotch as Special Agent G Callen stares at him, waiting for Nick to answer his questions. Nick rubs his free hand across his bloodied and sutured forehead before adjusting the icepack. He's not really sure if the ice is helping or just causing a different form of discomfort.

"Come on Nick, if you're wanting the doc to give you the good stuff, then hurry and answer our questions," Callen says, grabbing the chair by the wall and pulling it to the bed. He spins it around, straddling it as he sits, his arms resting over the back. "But I mean, it's not like we have anywhere to be. We can sit here all day if you want, asking questions, making noise…"

Deeks sets his fingers on the edge of the rolling tray and pushes it back and forth, the metal riggings grinding an ear splitting squeak. Nick clenches his jaw, suddenly feeling like a chained up rottweiler with a dog whistle held to its ear.

"I told you I don't know anything," Nick grinds out through gritted teeth, his eyes darting to Deeks disdainfully. Deeks doesn't smile, but he does stop moving the tray. He's sitting on the windowsill, the lone streetlight outside haloing his silhouette. Kensi and her wheelchair sit at his knee.

"You gotta know something, Nick," Sam tells him from his place near the door, "You telling us it was all your idea to come in here and try to kill Agent Blye?"

Nick closes his eyes and shakes his head, his lips quirking into a rueful smile. "No, it wasn't."

"We know it wasn't," Callen says, one finger tapping the opposite forearm. "We know it was Jett Hawkins who gave you the orders, we know you climbed into the clinic through the window in a neighboring room, we know that your buddies built a bomb back at the Lawton home and now it's missing, and we know that you know where it went."

Nick sucks in his lower lip, his eyes studying the knee of his stained scrub pants. After a moment of consideration, he looks back up, his eyes searching out Callen's.

"I want a deal," he says sternly.

"Not gonna happen," Deeks tells him, his voice raw and grated. He shifts his leg, raising his foot to rest on the wheel of Kensi's chair. The outline of Nick's hands is visible in the bruising pattern around Kensi's neck, her larynx inflamed to the point that it's painful to talk.

"I have to agree with the detective, Nick." Callen was just as unhappy to arrive at the clinic to find Kensi with additional injuries and one of the missing militiamen handcuffed to a bed. "You tell us where the bomb is and then you're the sheriff's problem."

Callen intentionally leaves out the part about the FBI being involved, not wanting Nick asking to speak with Agent Waters in the hopes of the Bureau offering a deal.

"What if I can give you more?" Nick asks, sounding desperate.

"You tried to kill my partner," Deeks interjects, not really giving Callen a chance to change his mind.

Nick looks to Deeks angrily, his free hand gesturing to the steadily melting icepack. "She hit me in the nut sac, man."

Deeks smiles, one side of his mouth rising higher than the other in a crooked grin. He feels no amount of pity for the man. "Don't take it personally. She's just a little upset because she can't be a Ninja Turtle."

"That and you tried to kill me," Kensi adds, her voice as raw as her partner's. Deeks just shifts his leg again, letting his knee lean against her shoulder, a subtle but effective sign of support.

"Like we said, Nick—give us the bomb and we're out of your hair," Sam says, getting them back on track.

"And like I said, what if I give you more?" Nick repeats.

"More what?" Callen asks before Deeks has a chance to speak up again.

"More information. I know stuff, stuff about the group, about the men, about Jett." Nick sounds enthusiastic, ready and willing to throw his comrades under the bus for a chance at a lesser sentence. "I mean I can tell you all about what Jett's up to, what he's been doing. I can tell you all about his brother…"

"Jett Hawkins died in the shoot out," Deeks says dryly, not really a fan of entertaining the idea of making a deal, "And we already know about Kade Lawton."

"That's one brother," Nick tells him, "But do you know about the other?" he asks, and even Deeks looks a little intrigued.

"What other brother?"

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"Yes, your honor, I know how late it is." Sheriff Singer pinches the bridge of his nose, his thick mustache barely moving as he talks on the phone. "But this is very important…Yes, I am aware of what I'm asking you to do."

Callen steps away, leaving the sheriff to sort through the politics of retrieving a late night warrant. So far, he's talked to three judges, all of whom have told him no, one going so far as to actually laugh. Gotta love them politics.

"Damn it!" the sheriff yells, angrily pressing his thumb to the screen. Hanging up on a touch screen phone just doesn't produce the same sense of satisfaction a flip phone provides.

"I'm guessing that's another 'no'?" Deeks asks, lifting his head long enough to look at the sheriff. The sheriff's very effective 'bite me' glare tells Deeks his answer. "Well isn't that nice. I mean, it's not like we're in a hurry or anything."

Sheriff Singer holds the phone, slowly tapping one end against his chin as he thinks things through. "I think we might be going about this the wrong way," he finally says after nearly a minute of contemplation.

He doesn't bother looking at the questioning glances the four team members send his way, he simply dials a familiar number and presses the phone to his ear. "Hey Hetty, Tommy here. Remember when you said you owe me one?"

Callen smiles, shaking his head as the answer becomes painfully obvious. Who ya gonna call? Hetty Lange.

"Yeah, well now you owe me two," the sheriff says, his smile slowly spreading. "Why? Because your agents got my house all shot to hell and back, that's why." He winks at Callen, and the two share a smile, no doubt imagining the indignant look coloring Hetty's face nearly a thousand miles away.

"Well, I'm wanting to cash in on one of those favors right now." Deeks sits up, once again lifting his head from his folded arms as he listens to the sheriff's end of the conversation.

The sheriff opens the door, stepping into the hallway as he begins to tell Hetty exactly what it is he needs her to do. "I need you to find me a judge with a pair of brass ones. And if that doesn't work, then look for one who you can scare the hell out of."

As he shuts the door behind him, muffling his voice, Kensi laughs a little. "We probably could have saved a whole lot of time if we had just called her from the beginning."

"Lesson learned, amigo," Deeks says, once again leaning forward and resting his forehead on the edge of her mattress. "At this rate, the pilot will get here before the warrant."

"Doesn't matter. We can always get a warrant later, right now we just need to go." Sam may like to act calm and collected, but truthfully, he's just as impatient and urgent as the rest of them.

Kensi stares at Deeks for a moment, thinking about whether or not she should before deciding yes and reaching forward, her fingers feeling the heated skin along his cheekbone.

"Kensi?" he asks, his head still face first into the mattress.

"Deeks?" she mimics, her hand not moving.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"You still have a fever," she tells him, removing her hand and trying not to look embarrassed, like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

"It's because he's still sick," Sam says, causing Deeks to look up, the word 'duh' on the tip of his tongue. Seeing the pale complexion masked beneath wind burnt cheeks, Sam frowns. "In fact, I'm pretty sure he's gotten worse."

"Doc gave me a shot," Deeks tells them, wishing like crazy they'd focus elsewhere. They probably would have had his voice not cracked, his throat deciding to rebel against the abuse caused by talking. He swallows heavily, the burn working its way down his throat.

"You still look like crap," Callen informs him. "Starting to sound it, too."

Deeks shrugs his shoulders, but smiles. "You're not looking any better." Callen can't really disagree. He likens getting shot in the chest while wearing Kevlar to the equivalent of being roundhouse kicked by a pissed off elephant, the result being considerably slowed and guarded movements as well as a pale complexion. Thank you man number two.

"So, Hetty said she's gonna see what she can do," Sheriff Singer updates as he walks back into the room. "And she wants me to tell you that you are all in serious trouble."

"What'd we do?" Sam asks, suddenly looking worried.

"Apparently, no one thought to call her and let her know about the Lawton house raid, the FBI showing up, or Agent Blye's most recent scuffle," Sheriff Singer tells them, dipping his head and looking at them from beneath heavy lashes, making Deeks feel like a little kid being scolded by Dad for not telling Mom about the broken vase.

"You did tell her that we're okay though, right?" Kensi quickly asks, knowing that Hetty has a tendency to take the well being of her agents seriously, sometimes to the extent that she takes unnecessary blame for their injuries.

"Oh yeah," the sheriff assures her, "But I won't envy you when—"

The shrill ring of the sheriff's cell phone ceases his sympathetic ramble. "Sheriff Singer," he says as he answers the phone, his expression and tone completely serious. "Yes, your honor. Yes, sir. Thank you, Judge."

As he hangs up the phone, his mustache twitches, revealing a '_well-I'll-be-damned' _smile. "She got us our warrant."

Deeks laughs, stretching his arms high before interlocking his fingers and placing them behind his head. "Have I mentioned how much I love that woman?"

"It's been said a time or two," Kensi says, laughing along with him. "Now, go catch a bad guy and get that bomb."

"You'll be okay by yourself?" Deeks asks, already up and facing the door. Kensi twists her lips into a reassuring smile and nods.

"Pilot should be here any moment," Sheriff Singer tells them, looking to his watch to see that it's already been ten minutes since he called the station.

"So, Deeks. Motorcycles or helicopters?" Callen asks, standing and reaching for his coat.

Deeks answers immediately, despite not really knowing why Callen's asking. "Helicopters, definitely."

"See Sam. Told you helicopters are better." Callen slaps the back of his hand against his partner's chest as they walk out the door.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Since when does Deeks' opinion settle an argument?"

"Since I saved his life," Deeks tells him,

"I'm pretty sure _I'm_ the one that saved…" Callen begins to correct, their voices slowly fading as they walk down the hall.

Listening to her teammates walk away, Kensi lays her head against the pillow, her eyes closing of their own volition as the sound of an approaching helicopter sounds in the distance.

Sheriff Singer claims the seat Deeks had just abandoned, a cup of coffee in his hands as he prepares to stand guard, and wait it out—whatever 'it' may be.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Special Agent Frankie Waters likes to be in charge of things, he likes to know what's going on. If given the choice, he'd always lead before even considering following someone else. He's worked hard the last nine years, building his reputation, clawing his way up in the Bureau. He'll be damned if he's going to let a couple of Navy cops and one half-assed detective stand in his way.

Callen had called him, telling him that they know where the bomb is and that they're on their way. The guy even had the nerve to order Waters to clear out the governor's mansion. At three in the morning. On a Tuesday.

But Frankie's momma didn't raise no fool. He's not about to put all his pride up for ante, put all his eggs in one basket, and pray the house wins because there's always a chance that those Navy boys could be right.

-:-

Governor Benjamin Dempsey is beyond pissed. He's standing in a terry cloth robe, the cinch tied tightly around his middle, hiding thin pajama pants and an old t-shirt. Heads are going to roll, that's for sure. By the time this is all over, Special Agent G Callen isn't going to have a leg to stand on. He and his opinionated boss, Henrietta Lange—whoever she is, they'll both be out of a job by sunrise if Governor Dempsey has his way.

He can hear that FBI agent talking on his phone, the words 'bomb squad' floating through the foyer. It's three o'clock in the morning. He's got a brunch meeting with the District Attorney later, and he'd like to make it without looking hungover.

"Agent," he calls, not really remembering the man's name. "What the hell is this all about?"

Agent Waters turns, the phone dropping to his side as he tries to plaster on a friendly smile. "Governor Dempsey, please. If you and your wife could just come with me, we've already got a hotel room ready for you."

"Agent you have lost your mind if you think I'm leaving at three in the morning to go to some hotel when I've got a perfectly good nine hundred dollar mattress waiting upstairs," Governor Dempsey yells, his lower jaw jutting forward as his anger rises.

"I understand your displeasure sir," Waters begins, that fake smile still in place, "But we received information indicating the possibility of a bomb being on your property."

"A bomb? Are you freaking kidding me?" Governor Dempsey turns away, his fist slamming down hard on the staircase's railing. "I thought NCIS was taking care of that shit?"

Agent Waters falters for a moment, that fake smile not quite reaching his eyes. "The FBI has taken over the investigation, Governor," he begins, bouncing back quickly. "We have correlated with your personal securi—"

"Well, bang up job you've done, Agent." Dempsey doesn't try to mask the sarcasm, the suave political charm not functioning before six in the morning. "Debby!" he calls to his wife, walking up the stairs towards their bedroom. "Get up, we gotta go."

Agent Waters lets the smile fall, his eyes rolling at the governor's crass demeanor. He can make out the sound of an approaching helicopter, and suddenly he feels the bile turning with the stale coffee in his stomach. The last thing he wants right now is to have a pissing contest with NCIS.

But best to play nice. If this all hits the fan, Special Agent Callen and his men are more than welcome to take the fall.

-:-

Deeks squints his eyes as he ducks and shuffles away from the helicopter and its still spinning blades, the sound of the propellers seeming so much louder on the outside. He follows Sam and Callen to the large house before them, the sight of Agent Waters' SUV ruining the picturesque scene.

"Is the governor still here?" Callen asks when Agent Waters meets them outside, not even bothering to play with pleasantries.

"They're getting ready to move him out," Waters tells him, "Bomb squad's on the way. Now, mind telling me where this bomb supposedly is?"

"Would if I could," Callen lies, "but I don't know."

Cue Kodak moment featuring a bourgeoning FBI freak out. "What do you mean you don't know? I just woke the damn governor up, and all for—

"We know it's here," Callen says, expertly reigning in the urge to tag on the title 'dumbass', "We just don't know where exactly."

"And you want to explain _how _you know all of this? You weren't really clear on the phone." Waters is starting to loose some of his composure as Callen begins enjoying himself.

"One of the missing militiamen told us," Callen explains, adopting Waters' false smile.

"You apprehended one of the missing men and you didn't notify me?" Waters asks in a tone that makes Deeks believe he was probably the monumental tattletale back in his day, a grade A hall monitor wannabe.

"He attacked one of my agents," Callen tells him. "We didn't know he was one of the militiamen until a little while ago," he lies again, finding the act as easy as it is pleasurable, especially when it makes that vein throb on the side of Waters' temple.

"You didn't know he was militia?" Waters asks, disbelief ringing loud and clear.

"Nope," Callen tells him, once again popping that 'p'. "But we do now."

Just as it looks as though Agent Waters is preparing to make a much-unsolicited comment, the front doors open, the governor and his wife being escorted by men Callen easily recognizes as FBI. The men waste no time securing the couple in the vehicle, not giving Callen a chance to stop and speak with the governor.

Grabbing the driver by the elbow, Callen pulls him aside, his tone serious. "You make sure someone stays with them at all times, understand?" The man looks to Agent Waters, confused as to who the man squeezing his elbow is, and why he's giving orders.

"Do as he says," Waters tells him, earning a nod from the man as Callen lets him go. The SUV drives away, leaving the men standing on the front walkway. "You know if you're wrong about this, you're going to have to answer to the governor, right?"

Callen smirks, and licks his lower lip as he wonders whether or not Agent Frankie Waters' middle name is Dick. "Why don't you just let us worry about that? Right now, we have a bomb to find."

Waters ignores Callen's obvious irritation and gestures to the front door. "I have men searching inside," he says in what's meant to be an authoritative tone. "They've already cleared the first two rooms—"

"Well, that's great, but also a big waste of time," Deeks interrupts, his breath visible in the cold air, his nose long ago having given up the fight and surrendered to the plague's defeat.

"And why's that, _Detective_?" Waters asks, and Deeks really wishes the guy would quit using his title like it's derogatory.

"Because _Agent_," Deeks spats back, his fingers crossed in hopes he can finish the sentence without his sore throat flaring and causing his voice to crack, "The men who planted the bomb weren't working inside the house, they were on the outside."

"Last time we were here, there was a crew cleaning up after the blizzard," Sam explains, his hands tucked in his pockets for warmth as he continues to tell Agent Waters about the supposed city workers and their bright fluorescent vests. "Turns out those men weren't with the city."

"So the bomb's on the property?" Waters asks, trying to catch up.

"Most likely not," Callen says, walking around the corner of the mansion. "Nicholas James said the bomb's intended to cause as much damage as possible. Just because they couldn't get inside doesn't mean that they'd want it too far from the house."

"Nell said the most damage would be caused from the cellar," Sam says, the blueprints for the house on his phone. "Entrance is around back."

The four men continue to walk around the property, the snow crunching beneath their boots, their flashlights shining the way. The sidewalk circling the house has been cleared, the occasional patch of ice showing that the men who had cleaned it up hadn't really been concerned with the details.

"This is it," Sam says, putting his phone away. He shines his flashlight on the large pile of snow. "Looks like they covered it back up."

"Probably because they didn't want anyone to actually find it." Deeks kicks a little at the snow, the toe of his boot coming in contact with something solid, the impact causing a handful of snow to fall from the top of the pile. Knowing what's needing to be done, but not liking it, Deeks turns to look at the brooding agent behind him.

"Waters? You got any shovels in that fancy SUV of yours?"

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Sam and Waters do the actual digging, Deeks' bruised body and rebelling immune system as well as Callen's aching ribs making it difficult to work a shovel. The door to the cellar isn't buried deep, the goal having been to simply mask the door, make it to where no one would be curious.

Deeks can feel his body begin to shiver as the wind starts to pick up, bits of sleet blowing in his face. Callen hops on the balls of his feet to keep warm. Snow's nice sometimes, it has its days, though today isn't exactly one 'em.

One pair of bolt cutters later, the padlock and chain fall to the ground, the recently dug pile of snow hiding them from view. Tossing the shovels to the ground, Sam lifts the latch on the handle and pulls the metal door open as far as it will go, revealing a series of stairs leading into darkness.

"Ladies first," Sam offers, waving towards the door for Waters to take the lead. Deeks and Callen smile as the man sneers and angrily shines his flashlight into the cellar.

"What if it's booby trapped?" Waters ask, a hint of nervousness sneaking into his voice.

"Try not to touch anything," Callen answers, already stepping forward and waiting impatiently for the man to get moving. "And watch your step."

They walk down the few stairs in a single file, Sam taking up the rear. The cellar is huge, as big as Callen's entire house. It's large and open, a few columns acting as support spaced out here and there, several large storage containers labeled 'Christmas' sit in one corner, more boxes labeled 'campaign' in another. There's an old couch along one wall, the cushions long gone, the edges looking torn and ragged as though rats had chewed the fabric. And in the corner farthest from the stairs lies four bodies, a large barrel centered next to them, a series of explosives wired to the sides.

"Alright, show of hands," Deeks says, breaking the silence, "who saw this coming?" He raises his own hand as he steps forward to look at the bodies. The faces are void of all color, the lips blue. The blood on the concrete floor is frozen, the temperature being several degrees lower in the underground room.

"Looks like COD was blunt force trauma," Callen says, looking at the caved in skull before him, recognizing the men as the four who had come with him from California.

"Smart," Sam observes, moving to look at the bomb. "That way when this goes off, it would look like they died in the explosion." He bends his knees as he squats down to look at the sticks of dynamite taped around the body of the barrel.

"Sam," Callen says warningly, stepping towards his partner, his eyes studying the bright red numbers on the lid.

"I saw it," Sam tells him. He stands and looks at the wires leading to the timer, not liking what he sees. "It's set to go off in two hours," he says, shining his flashlight towards the ceiling. "It looks like it's placed below the governor's office."

"Just about," Callen agrees, trying not to think about how much damage a bomb this size could do. "Dynamite and a barrel full of gasoline…"

"We need to get out of here. Clear out the FBI and let the bomb squad take over," Sam announces, casting one last look at the bodies on the ground. The sudden burst of wind followed by a loud, metallic bang causes everyone to jump, each reaching for their gun and aiming at the door.

The suddenly closed door.

"Sonuvabitch!" Sam yells, running forward and pushing upwards on the door. The sound of the growing wind is muffled, the distinct 'clank' mocking them as Sam continues to push on the door, the latch having fallen back into place, locking them in the basement.

Deeks, ever the inappropriate one, coughs loudly, his chest rattling before speaking. "Alright, show of hands. Who saw _that_ coming?"

TBC…


	9. And We All Fall Down

_A/N: On a happy note, we have one chapter to go (maybe an epilogue, too). And do not worry Jmlane1966, this is definitely not my last NCIS:LA story. While I might go a while in between multi-chapter fics, I love this fandom too much to actually give it up. That and my mind won't stop with the whole plot bunny thing. BUT, I will be writing for other fandoms as well. But you're not the first to say something. For some reason, when I post a story related to something other than NCIS:LA, I always get at least one PM from someone freaking out, thinking I've given up writing about Deeks. Not true peeps, I just like to share the love, and there's another smartass in another fandom that I'm completely head over heels for and feel the need to write about. So, for future reference to the few who have a tendency to freak out on me, when I post a story about Supernatural, try not to get your fangirl panties in a twist, I will write for NCIS:LA again. I just want to take turns with the fandoms. But in all seriousness, I take it as a compliment that you like my writing so much that the thought of me never writing about Deeks again produces panic-ridden keymashery. It makes me both blush with undue pride and feel humble all at once, a combination I've never encountered until I began to post stories._

Chapter 9: And We All Fall Down

There have been times when Callen has felt hatred for something inanimate or simply non-human. A coffee table that he kept hitting his shin on, a chair upholstered in polyester that kept shocking him with little static charges every time he would move, an annoying ringtone. As of now, the wind can officially be added to that list, because thanks to it, Callen is now trapped in a freezing cellar with four dead bodies, a timed bomb, and one aggravatingly pissed off FBI agent. The wind can suck it.

"There's still no reception," Agent Waters says for the third time, and Callen _almost_ turns around to hit him. He had heard him the first two times. Most cell phone carriers don't plan for concrete and snow encased cellars.

Deeks is standing on the old couch, one foot on the back, the other on an armrest. He's holding a wooden stake from one of the campaign signs, the actual sign now lying on the floor as Deeks reaches high above his head and bangs on the ceiling, hoping that one of the agents upstairs will hear the sound. It's a long shot, but sometimes long shots come in handy.

It's been almost four minutes, the timer on the bomb slowly ticking down, still closer to two hours than boom, but still…time flies when you're having fun. Or waiting to die.

Sam, having given up on angrily pounding his shoulder into the heavy door, is currently digging through the Christmas boxes. Strands of once neatly wrapped lights lay strewn across the floor. Large burgundy bows and lawn candy canes, an intricately engraved wooden placard wishing everyone "Happy Holidays" quickly find their way to the pile as Sam continues to search for something useful, something that will help them get out.

The door being metal makes shooting the hinges a bad idea, unless of course they're fans of ricochets. Whoever the genius was that designed the door forgot to put a freaking handle on the inside, the idea obviously being that the door would remain open while things were moved into and out of storage.

Waters had quickly found the light switch, illuminating the cellar in soft light, the thirty-watt bulb producing little more than a faint glow. Callen's pretty certain he's seen Easy Bake Ovens with a brighter bulb.

Where as the room appeared larger when first entering, it now seems a great deal smaller. Maybe it's the absence of the shadows, or the fact that they are now actually trapped inside, either way, Callen's definitely starting to feel a sense of claustrophobia.

Deeks drops the wooden stake, the wood bouncing off the concrete floor as he sits on the back of the couch. He brings his arm up, coughing into his elbow. In the near empty room, the cavernous-like walls cause the sound to echo loudly, reverberating back a moment later, giving each cough a bark-like quality.

"This'll work," Sam says, bringing Callen's attention back to his partner and the mess around his feet. Sam smiles as he spins a hammer in his hand, gripping it to test the weight.

Callen, not seeing any obvious logical link between a hammer and a closed door, raises an eyebrow questioningly. "_How_, exactly, will that work?"

Sam winks before walking towards Deeks and picking up the abandoned wooden stake. "The door's made with three slip joint hinges," Sam says, his tone indicating that the one sentence should be explanation enough.

"Do you know what that means?" Deeks asks Callen, resting his elbows on his knees as he continues to sit on the couch. His voice is broken and gravelly, his throat raw from excess coughing and freezing temperatures. When Callen shakes his head no and shrugs his shoulders, Deeks nods and gives a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, I'm always having to make Kensi explain her ramblings, too."

"Knowing you, she's got to explain more than just her ramblings," Sam says, climbing back up the few stairs. He places one knee on the second step, studying the hinge lowest to the ground as he begins to explain.

"Slip joint hinges are removable. Basically, they're made with a sleeve and a pin." Sam removes one of his gloves, letting his bare fingers run the length of the bottom hinge and barely visible pin. "Pop the pin out…"

"You open the door," Callen finishes, stepping closer to see what Sam's doing. The pins, while visible, appear to be tightly enclosed within the hinges, the head of the pin flush against the lip of the sleeve. Just by looking, Callen can tell it's going to be easier said than done. "Think you can get 'em all out in under two hours?"

"G, you think I'm gonna let you get blown up?" Sam asks with false sincerity. "What kind of partner would that make me?"

"The kind that got defeated by a door," Callen tells him, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the flashlight when their shadows block out the little light from the low wattage bulb.

Sam places the edge of the wooden stake beneath the edge of the pin's head, only to have to repeat the act two more times when the stake slips, the head not providing enough of an edge for the stake to maneuver beneath. "If this doesn't work, I could always try and disarm the bomb?" Sam suggests, putting the stake back in place.

"What is with you and wanting to disarm bombs?" Callen asks as he holds the flashlight. "We've got two hours. Leave it to bomb squad."

Sam just laughs as he begins to hammer upward on the stake, attempting to loosen the metal pin. As Callen had originally guessed, the act proves easier said than done. The hinges are old, the pins rusted in place.

Sam continues to hit the stake with the hammer. Like with Deeks' cough, the sound echoes through the cellar, the stake occasionally slipping and hitting the door. Callen is just getting to where he can finally see the first pin begin to move when Deeks' strained yet disbelieving voice startles him.

"Dude, what the hell?!"

Callen and Sam both turn to look. Deeks has jumped down from the back of the couch, his eyes wide as he rushes to Agent Waters. Waters holds his hands up defensively, his palms out as he shakes his head.

"I didn't do anything," he insists, his eyes looking worriedly to Sam and Callen before falling back to the bomb.

Callen quickly crosses the room, his eyebrows drawing together in concern as he sees the numbers on the timer gone, replaced by the red flashing letters 'Err.'

"What the hell happened?" Sam asks, looking back and forth between Deeks and Waters. Deeks quickly points to Waters, his finger shaking.

"He did it."

"I didn't do anything," Waters repeats, this time tossing a little anger in with his worry.

Deeks gestures wildly to the timer, his voice cracking as he tries to yell. "You touched it!"

Waters continues to shake his head. "Did not!"

Before anyone could fall into a classic battle of 'did not/did too', Callen steps forward. "Doesn't matter," he says, looking to Deeks, silently ordering him to drop it. "What's it doing?"

Sam looks at the timer and shakes his head. "I have no idea, but I'd prefer it if we weren't around to find out."

Without another word, Callen and Sam go back to the door, resuming their pounding on the pins.

"Tell the truth, Waters," Deeks says, grabbing another sign and resuming his banging on the ceiling, "when you walk down a toy aisle, you're the type of guy to press all the 'try-me' buttons, aren't ya?"

"Go to hell, Detective," Waters spats, reaching for a sign and climbing onto the other end of the couch, his shorter height making him have to reach higher.

"If that bomb goes off, you'll be going with me," Deeks tells him as they both continue their desperate attempt at Morse code.

Six minutes after the wind first slammed the door shut, two after Sam had first tried manipulating the hinges, they hear a beautiful sound.

There's a slight, metallic squeal followed by a distinctive click before those rusty hinges begin to whine, the cold air quickly entering the cellar. A man wearing a plain Kevlar vest pulls the door open, his brow knitted in concern and curiosity at the banging coming from the cellar door.

The four men inside waste no time. Sam and Callen quickly push the man back, startling him as they move to make their escape. Sam has to grab the man by the shoulders to keep him from hitting the ground. Deeks and Waters are out a moment later, the words 'bomb' and 'run' catching in the wind as they run around the house.

In no time at all, the house is emptied, the remaining agents and officers standing a safe distance back, watching as the bomb squad prepares to enter the cellar.

"How much time was left on the timer?" the lead bomb technician asks as he's helped into his protective gear, the bulky items being uncomfortable but necessary.

"Almost two hours, but something went wrong," Sam explains to the man, "The number's disappeared, and it started to blink. Showed the letters 'err'."

"Because genius touched it," Deeks whispers beneath his breath, earning a small smirk from Callen.

"Could be a problem with the wiring," the man guesses before he secures the large helmet in place. Bag in hand, he climbs onto the back of a golf cart for the ride across the large lawn back to the mansion's cellar.

The cart's about halfway across when everything goes to hell.

The earth shakes, the snow shifting beneath Callen's feet. The sound comes a second later—a large pop followed by an even larger boom. The whole house seems to implode first, the roof caving in for just a moment before being expounded out, the force of the bomb breaking through the barrier of the cellar's walls.

It's like the wind never stood a chance. One second, the sleet is blowing east and the next it's reaching to the four corners, the blast forcing Mother Nature to momentarily change course, knocking everything and everyone in its path to the ground.

-:-

It's kind of like trying to listen to Led Zeppelin while submerged deep under water, throw in a hangover and a dizzying sense of disorientation and you've got exactly what Callen is feeling.

He slowly blinks, his eyes taking a minute to focus before he realizes he's staring at the underside of a government issued bumper. Tentatively, he raises his hands, digging his palms into his eye sockets as that muffled deep-sea sound fades in and out, a steady high-pitched tone working on one ear.

Feeling like he might throw up, he turns his head, his eyes once again squinting shut despite his efforts to keep them open. Reaching blindly for the bumper he knows is above his head, Callen pulls himself into a sitting position, letting his shoulders rest against the SUV.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, he's met with a scene right out of a movie, one of those futuristic end of the world things. Everyone is on the ground, their feet all facing the same way as though they had been looking in the same direction before something swept in and bowled them over.

And that's when he remembers that that's exactly what happened. He looks to the mansion, or what's left of it. The golf cart is still standing up, the driver and the bomb technician not so much.

Callen can feel the glass from the SUV mixed in with the snow beneath him. Others are starting to stir, everyone slowly standing, each looking as messed up as Callen feels. Suddenly, there's someone in his face, and again, this someone looks pretty messed up.

Deeks is kneeling beside him, one hand on the bumper for balance, the other on Callen's shoulder as he tries to get his team leader to look at him, a look of pain clouding his eyes.

"Callen, can you hear me?" Deeks yells, probably a little louder than he needs to, but the ringing in his own ears, that deep pressure, like he sneezed while pinching his nose, it's all making it difficult to hear.

"Yeah," Callen says on an exhale, his eyes taking in the many cuts and scrapes along Deeks' face and neck. Judging by the stinging working it's way over Callen's skin, he's about ninety percent certain he's rocking the sharded glass look, too. "Think you can help me up?"

Deeks offers him a crooked grin. "I was just about to ask you the same thing?" Callen just laughs as he painfully moves to his knees, each of his muscles suddenly feeling like they've been put to their limit in one of Sam's spur of the moment endurance sessions.

Speaking of Sam…

"You see Sam?" Callen asks as he stands, secretly proud of himself when the earth doesn't tilt. Looking around, he's happy to see movement from everyone within sight, no one had been too seriously injured.

"Right here, G." Sam walks around the SUV his hand working his jaw as he tests the joint. "You two good?"

"I've been better," Deeks says, his finger scratching at the blood running from his ear. "Think I might've busted an eardrum, but I think I'm good."

Callen just nods his answer, his eyes being drawn to the burning mansion across the debris-strewn lawn. "That was a close one."

"Too close," Sam agrees.

"I guess we're lucky the bomb squad guy heard you banging on the door," Callen continues, rubbing the knot on the back of his head.

Sam scoffs as he brushes the snow from his shoulder, "Damn lucky."

Seeing a handful of emergency vehicles pull onto the property, Callen starts walking, his goal to find a car they can borrow. "I was starting to think you were going to let me blow up."

"I thought we covered this," Sam asks, he and Deeks falling in step with Callen, neither sure where he's going, but both willing to follow. "We're partners, G. We look out for one another."

"Till death do us part?" Callen asks with a smile, despite the fact that Sam's walking behind him and can't see it.

"Or divorce, whichever comes first," Sam says, matching Callen's smile.

Callen stops walking, turning to look at his partner with an offended smirk. "You thinking about leaving me?"

"Nah, just stating the possibilities," Sam somewhat assures him.

Callen looks at him skeptically as he turns and continues his search for a car. "I'm not really feeling the love here, Sam."

"Don't worry, G. You're the only partner for me." Sam slaps him gently on the back, cautious of his tender ribs. Callen looks at him seriously.

"Good," he says, before turning, his eyes landing on Agent Waters.

"My luck," Sam continues, one dimple showing as his smile grows, "if I had to have a new partner, Granger would pair me up with a dumber version of Deeks."

"What?" Deeks asks, the ringing in his ears blocking out most of the conversation. He's certain he had heard his name, and he's willing to bet money based on the two matching smiles on Sam and Callen's faces that what was said hadn't been positive. "Seriously guys? We just told Death to suck it, again, and you're making fun of me? Seriously?"

Sam just laughs as Callen calls to Agent Waters. The man turns, a bloodied piece of fabric held to his forehead, his face cut up with scratches matching those of Sam, Callen, and Deeks. Apparently, flying automobile glass doesn't discriminate.

"Waters, we need you're help," Callen tells him, earning the attention of one of the medics. As a young woman wearing a pair of purple gloves and a stethoscope around her neck begins to shine an instrument in Deeks' ear, Callen adamantly brushes off her partner and his concerned administrations. "Not that kind of help," Callen tells the man, thankful when Sam pulls the guy to the side, leaving Callen to deal with the agent.

"We need to borrow one of your SUVs," Callen clarifies to a very shaken looking Waters.

Waters looks around, his eyes going to the front of the house where his own SUV had been. The vehicle's currently up in flames, part of the mansion's roof having found it's way into the back seat.

"Why?" Waters asks, removing the napkin from his forehead and frowning at the blood.

"Because we need to get to the governor," Callen tells him, his hand going to the pocket of his jacket, insuring that the folded document is still there.

"Governor's safe," Waters said, waving Callen off. "My men are keeping an eye on him."

"That's not why I want to see him," Callen corrects, pulling out the document and handing it the Waters.

Waters takes the paper, looking at Callen suspiciously as he unfolds the warrant and begins to read. Callen doesn't say anything, he simply stands back and lets the confusion take over the FBI agent's bruised and battered features.

"Why do you have a warrant for the governor's DNA?" Waters finally asks, dropping his voice so that those surrounding them won't hear.

Callen smiles as he snaps the warrant back. "Get me a car and you can find out."

TBC…


	10. Secrets, Lies, and Humble Pie

_A/N: Normally, I feel a sense of satisfaction yet sadness when I complete a story. This time around, I'm just happy for the blasted thing to finally be over. This is the part where everything's supposed to be revealed and questions answered. It seemed better when I was first planning it out, but now that it's written, it just comes off as weak, in my opinion. But I'm determined to see it through. This story was intended to focus on character interaction rather than case mystery. I had a series of scenes and dialogue that I wanted written, so I simply created the story/case to work around them instead of doing a series of short one shots. I apologize for any and all short fallings._

_This chapter has a lot of OC names and info that requires remembering from earlier in the story. (Lawton, Hawkins, Clive the Cashier, Nicholas James.) I tried to clarify who was who without out right being redundant, I hope it's all clear. _

_I had planned on this thing ending this chapter with an epilogue to tie it up. I lied, both to you and myself. Things will be tied up next chapter (hopefully the last). _

_I want to thank everyone that's continued to support both this story and me. It's greatly appreciated, and honestly, is probably the only reason I'm still writing. _

Chapter 10: Secrets, Lies, and a Big Ole Slice of Humble Pie

Deeks pushes his finger into his ear, the cotton ball itching the inner wall, sending an unnerving tickling sensation right to his central nervous system. He had busted an eardrum, which had explained the sharp pain radiating from that side of his head. A quick exam, a promise to take it easy, and one cotton ball later, Deeks finds himself standing in the antechamber of the Fairview's Presidential Suite.

The view is pretty awesome, the city of Helena spread out beneath the six story hotel, blanketed in snow and what little light four in the morning will provide—so much different from what he's used to.

He works his jaw, much like Sam had done immediately after the explosion. The action makes his ear pop, and he can see the grimace of pain in his dark reflection as he continues to look out the window. The cotton ball itches again, tickling his brain, and if it weren't for the fact that it keeps out unwanted wind and noise, he'd have ditched it the moment the nice lady had shoved it in.

"Deeks!" Sam calls, and when Deeks turns around he can tell by Sam's annoyed sense of concern that it hadn't been the first time he had been called.

"Hmm?" Deeks asks, pulling on an interested face, his eyes widening as he tries for ignorant innocence.

"I asked how's your ear?" Sam repeats, saying the words slowly, emphasizing the movement of his mouth. Deeks smiles a little, once again adjusting the godforsaken cotton.

"I'm not deaf, Sam," Deeks tells him, consciously trying to keep his voice at an indoor level.

"No, you just can't hear," Callen scoffs, glancing at his watch and frowning. Waters had made the call for a technician to meet them at the hotel nearly thirty minutes ago. He gets that it's the butt crack of dawn, but seriously…

"I can hear," Deeks defends, easing his aching body onto the couch next to Callen. "I was just thinking." He looks up to Sam, smiling in hopes to seem believable. Honestly, he is having a little trouble hearing, but the lady with the cotton had promised it was normal, that it would eventually go away.

Sam, not taking any of Deeks' crap, turns his head slightly, muttering something really low. Deeks frowns, and before he can stop himself, he asks, "What?"

"Exactly," Callen declares, pointing at Deeks accusingly, catching him in a lie.

Deeks rolls his eyes as he leans his head back. "All this coming from the guy who was knocked unconscious."

"I was not unconscious," Callen says quickly, sitting up to look at Deeks.

"Dude, you were out. I saw you," Deeks tells him, turning when the elevator chimes. The golden doors open, Waters and a man wearing a dark blue polo shirt stepping into the antechamber.

"Are we really about to do this?" Waters asks, glancing once to the agent waiting by the hotel room's large double doors before addressing Callen, Sam, and Deeks. "You do realize if you're wrong, our careers are over?"

"You sound worried, Waters," Sam taunts.

Agent Waters levels him with an annoyed glare. "We're about to serve the Governor of Montana a warrant for his DNA, of course I'm a little worried."

"Don't forget we still gotta tell him you blew up his house," Deeks chimes in from the couch. The technician in the dark polo looks at Waters confusedly. Apparently, news has yet to spread.

Waters ignores the young man's questioning glance. "I'm glad you find this funny, Detective, but in case you haven't yet realized, _I_ don't get to go back to California when this is all over. If you're wrong about all of this, as soon as everything really hits the fan, you three will be leaving, and I'll have to stay here with a pissed off Governor."

"We're not wrong," Callen tells him confidently, trying to be somewhat reassuring, because the guy's kind of making a valid point.

"Right," Waters says with a dramatic roll of the eyes, "because you managed to crack the one guy you just so happened to find. He was probably telling you anything he could to get out of trouble. Threw a couple of big names in the mix to get the attention off of him."

"Believe it or not, that thought had crossed our minds," Callen says, a little offended at Waters' insinuating that they hadn't thought of that possibility. "But he had too much intel, too much specifics for it to be made up."

Waters scrunches is brow, the large knot at his hairline jumping with the movement. "What intel?" he asks, sounding doubtful and curious all at once.

"Intel about everything Jett Hawkins and his crew's been up to the last few months, about why Jett really was visiting California, about why Kade Lawton really sent me and those four dead guys here." Callen stands from the couch. He's tired of waiting, tired of playing nice. "Turns out, everything circles back around to California and those missing Navy weapons."

"Which, incidentally," Sam says with a smile, "puts this back in our jurisdiction."

"What are you talking about?" Waters asks, his voice rising, his mind missing too many pieces to put the puzzle together. "How does the Governor have anything to do with your missing weapons?"

"See, that's what we asked, too," Deeks says, rising to stand next to Callen. "Then good old Nick explained it to us."

Waters still looks confused. "Nick who?"

"Nicholas James," Callen clarifies, "The militiaman we apprehended,"

"Try to keep up, Waters," Sam says, causing the agent to frown.

"The FBI tore the Lawton home apart. We have papers, plans, weapons—we went through everything with a fine tooth comb, nothing mentioned anything about California or the Governor." Waters says accusingly.

"They would have gotten rid of any hard evidence," Callen says, knowing as much, "Especially after they caught me reading their little notebook. That's why they moved the bomb to the mansion, figured I knew about them wanting to hit the capital."

Waters bites his lip, places his hands on his hips as he shakes his head, his eyes studying the scene out the large window. "You really expect me to believe that you got all this information from the one guy? That you just so happened to know what buttons to push to get the guy talking?"

"We know how to do our jobs," Deeks says, more than slightly offended. He gets it, the guy's nervous about taking down one of the big boys, doesn't mean he needs to be a dick to those that have his back, by choice or not.

"Oh, I'm sure you do," Waters says quietly, and Deeks isn't sure whether he heard the condescension or not. "But, I'd feel better about this if—"

"If the FBI had been the ones to find it," Callen guesses, earning an annoyed and guilty shrug. "You have what, twenty men in custody? Didn't any of them give you anything?"

An embarrassed and defiant glare is his only answer. Deeks doesn't need to hear to know that _that's_ what's really bothering Agent Waters. "So, you're saying that we're the only ones to actually get any useful information?" Deeks asks, pointing between himself, Sam, and Callen.

When Waters doesn't answer, Deeks continues.

"But we only had the one guy," Deeks says, holding up a single finger for emphasis as he continues in a mockingly confused tone. "Surely, out of all the men who were arrested at the Lawton home, the FBI was able to break at least one. Right?"

"Doesn't look like it," Callen tells him, shaking his head with a false sense of sadness, a 'what a pity' look taking over his features.

"Well, I guess it's a good thing we were doing our jobs then, huh Special Agent Callen?"

"I say it's a _very _good thing, Detective Deeks."

"But don't worry Frankie," Deeks says, using the man's first name. "We know the FBI appreciates all of our hard work."

Recognizing his own words, the ones he had used at the end of their first meeting, Agent Waters turns away angrily, gesturing to the agent near the door, signaling that it's time to get the show on the road.

Warrant in hand, Callen, Sam, Deeks, and the silent technician follow the two FBI agents into the large room.

-:-

Callen watches as Waters and the other agent knock on the door separating the spacious living room from the bedroom. As expected, the Governor opens the door, his seemingly permanent angry expression in place, making Callen think all of those smiling campaign photos had been photo-shopped.

Governor Dempsey looks as though he's about to demand to know why he's being disturbed again, but stops as he notices the condition of the four men before him, the cuts and scrapes having had time to swell and blossom.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asks, stepping out of the doorway.

"We found that bomb," Deeks answers, his wind-chapped lips pressing together as he nods his head. _Yep, we sure did_.

"You fou…what?" Governor Dempsey mumbles, shaking his head in confusion.

Not really wanting to get into the whole 'sorry your house got blown up' spiel, Callen steps forward, the warrant unfolded in his extended hand. "Governor Benjamin Dempsey, we have a warrant for your DNA."

Yep, that smile had to have photo-shopped, because this frown, it's freaking epic. "What the hell are you wanting my DNA for?" Dempsey demands, his brow furrowed into one major unibrow.

Callen nods to the technician, and the young man steps forward, gloves already on as he wrestles the large cotton swab from its package.

"Why don't you sit down, Governor?" Callen suggests once the technician forcefully swabs the inside of the reluctant man's cheek. "We have a lot to discuss."

"I want to know what the hell's going on, and I want to know now." Dempsey looks pointedly from one face to the next, his face reddening with anger, and Callen is suddenly ambushed of memories watching Yosemite Sam blow a fuse on Saturday mornings, steam coming out of his ears as he tap danced his wrath.

Callen once again gestures to the extravagant couch, "Sit down, and we'll tell you." Governor Dempsey eyes him disdainfully, but does as he's told. Callen claims the large armchair across from the couch, the coffee table being the only thing separating the two men.

Phone in hand, Callen begins the interrogation. "Governor, when we first met, you told us that you had no past experience with Jett Hawkins, that you had no ties to the man or his group."

"That's right," Dempsey confirms, his politician's face firmly plastered in place.

"What about a man named Kade Lawton?" Callen continues, his thumb flipping through photos on his phone. Finding the one he wants, Callen turns the screen towards the Governor, his eyes watching the man's face. Other than a slight twitch of the eyebrow, an obviously controlled purse of the lips, and a carefully placed shrug, Dempsey gives nothing away.

"Never heard of him," the Governor tells them smoothly. Callen looks over his shoulder, sharing a knowing look with Sam. Once again thumbing through the pictures Eric had sent him, Callen continues with his questions.

"What about him? Any idea who this guy is?" Callen holds up the image of Jeffrey Hawkins, the man Clive the Cashier had told them was the father of both Jett Hawkins and Kade Lawton.

Governor Dempsey stares at the photo, that one eyebrow twitching again before he shakes his head, his lips pursing in implied confusion. "Should I?"

"I'd say so," Sam says, leaning against the armrest on Callen's chair. "He's your daddy."

Governor Dempsey shakes his head, that photo-shopped smile making an appearance. "Gentleman, you are mistaken. My father is Andrew Dempsey—"

"Lawyer who married you're mother in '58," Callen interrupts, reading from the file on his phone. "Funny thing, seeing how you were born in '56."

"Funnier thing," Deeks says, maybe a little louder than is needed, "That you were born Benjamin Goodwin. Isn't that your mother's maiden name?"

Governor Dempsey keeps his eyes focused on Callen, his peripheral vision taking in the surrounding FBI agents, his palms sweating as he begins to feel boxed in. "Andrew was my father," he insists. "The man raised me, he's the only one I ever knew."

"But that doesn't make him blood," Callen tells him. "Don't get me wrong, I know it takes more than shared DNA to make family, but it doesn't make for as interesting a story."

Governor Dempsey runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, his thumbs twisting in his lap. "Get to the point, Agent."

Callen leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he meets the Governor's eyes. "We know that your biological father was Jeffrey Hawkins, the same man that fathered Jett Hawkins and Kade Lawton."

"And you feel it was necessary to get a warrant to smear my mother's good name?" Dempsey accuses.

"We're not here to smear anyone's name," Callen corrects, "We're here about what you did when your brothers found out they had family in high places."

And suddenly, all pretenses go out the large, scenic window. Governor Dempsey's face hardens, all bull-shitting aside as he casts a worrying glance to the closed bedroom door, his wife hopefully sleeping soundly behind it. "I didn't have anything to do with them, or what they were doing," he tells them, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

Callen knows that Deeks hadn't heard, especially when he sees the detective take a few steps forward, his brow furrowing as he studies the movements of the Governor's mouth.

"We know something happened, something that would piss them off to the point that they would try and kill you," Callen says, in the same tone as the Governor's. Deeks'll just have to catch up later. "If you want us to believe that you didn't have anything to do with their business, quit lying to us about knowing them."

The Governor looks away, watching as new snow begins to fall out the window, the wind sending it into crazy patterns. When he gives no response, no sign that he's about to confess, Callen speaks up again.

"Three months ago, NCIS got word about some missing weapons, faulty weapons that were supposed to have been destroyed," he begins, his tone sharp, lecturing as he explains. "The missing weapons traced back to a militia group based a few hours outside LA County. I spent three months working my way into the group, hoping to find the weapons before they got into the wrong hands. Less than two weeks in, I get shipped out, sent here to Montana to work with a man named Jett Hawkins.

"Imagine my surprise when I learn that Jett is the half-brother of the man who sent me here," Callen continues. "I was even more surprised to learn that Jett wasn't Kade's only brother."

Dempsey wipes the palms of his hands on his knees, his tongue darting out as he nervously licks his lower lip, his eyes studying the coffee table as he surrenders to defeat. "I don't know how they found out," he begins, his eyes still on the wood grain, "but about six months ago, I get a phone call from Kade, saying he knows who my real father is, knows all about a lot of stuff." Dempsey looks up, making it clear he's referring to stuff he'd rather not have known.

"He started in on how it wouldn't look good if the press got news that the Governor's daddy was an adulterous prick, or had two bastard brothers who were caught up in the militia." Dempsey laughs, the sound spiteful and angry. "They tried to blackmail me," he tells Callen, "wanted me to help them out."

"How?" Callen asks, already knowing the answer. Nicholas James had been willing to talk.

"With those blasted weapons," Dempsey snaps, loosing his temper as he stands, running his hands through his hair. "Kade wanted me to use my influences, make it to where people wouldn't go digging or asking question when he and Jett started breaking down and selling military issued weapons. Right in my backyard! What were they thinking?"

"They were being smart," Sam tells him. "They're Navy weapons. There's no Naval base here in Montana. No one would be missing 'em, no one to look for 'em. No one here wants to piss off the militia."

"But we were all over it in California," Callen continues. "It would have been too risky to push the weapons in LA. We had the Mexican border on high alert. Sending them here was the smartest move."

"Break 'em down and scrap them as parts," Sam finishes.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a pushover," Dempsey tells them, reclaiming his seat on the couch.

Callen watches as the man tries to find his composure.

"That's why you started working the new legislation, supporting tougher gun control," Deeks says, surprising Callen. Apparently, Kensi's been teaching somebody how to read lips.

Dempsey nods, confirming Deeks' theory. "Kade kept sending threats, told me to back off, but…"

"You're not a pushover," Callen says, leaning back in his chair.

Dempsey runs his hands through his hair again, the tips standing on end. "I didn't do anything illegal."

"Nothing except lie to Federal Agents and impede our investigation," Sam corrects. The Governor at least has the decency to look a little ashamed.

"We're willing to overlook that if you'll help us out," Callen announces, and the Governor looks up suspiciously, yet eagerly.

"How?"

"Do you have anything that could help us bring down Lawton?" Callen asks, once again leaning forward. "Letters, voicemail, anything?"

"I recorded our phone calls," Dempsey says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "They're on my laptop at home."

Callen wrinkles his nose as he tilts his head. "You wouldn't happen to have kept a second copy somewhere else would you? Somewhere not at the mansion?"

The Governor looks up, confusion written clearly on his face. "Yeah, why?"

"Just wondering," Callen lies, absently scratching one of the cuts from the explosion.

TBC…


	11. Silver Linings and Welcomed Sunshine

_A/N: Okay people, this is the end. It would have been posted sooner, however, the technical universe has conspired against me. First, I lost the first draft of this chapter. Don't know how, just know that when I turned my computer on, the entire file was gone. Then after re-writing the whole thing as well as finishing it up, FanFiction wouldn't work with me. The site was doing that weird thing where it wouldn't let me upload anything. I apologize for the delay. I really try hard to update as quickly as possible, usually doing so within two days or less. I know I hate waiting, and I don't expect any of you to be any different. (Especially with all the 'update soon's I receive) :)_

_Again, I thank everyone for all the support and for sticking with this story. _

Chapter 11: Silver Linings and Welcomed Sunshine

There are times when you're left with no choice but to look for the silver lining. Other times, you're the one that has to remind others of that little fact, remind them that things could always have been worse.

That's exactly what Callen had done when he pointed out that while it was unfortunate that the Governor's mansion had been destroyed, it was pretty damn lucky that the Governor wasn't actually inside when it happened. When that little tidbit didn't work to improve Governor Dempsey's mood, Callen reminded him of the other silver lining—he won't be going to jail and no longer has to worry about being blackmailed.

And on the plus side, the media will play it out like the Governor had been the victim all along, working hard to counter the growing number of illegal weapons within the state only to have the angry militia retaliate—no mention of court ordered DNA tests or half brothers, as long as the Governor plays along, giving them the information they need to stop Kade Lawton and his weapons trafficking. Some call it entrapment, others call it a necessary means to an end.

In the end, everyone that's still alive is happy.

"So, the Governor's giving you copies of the recordings?" Sheriff Singer asks as he pulls the truck onto the county road. They just dropped Deeks off at the clinic when the Sheriff volunteered to drive them back to the house and help gather their things.

"Yep, he's already emailed them to our tech guy back in LA," Sam says, absently massaging a knot on the back of his neck, trying to relieve the tension. "Should be enough to bring Lawton down for blackmail and bust him on the weapons."

"Between the recordings and Nicholas James' testimony, he's going away for a long time," Callen comments from the back seat, stretching his arms high above his head, regretting the movement the moment it reminds him of all his injuries. "Eric says Hetty's putting together a task force as we speak. Lawton and his men should be rounded up by the time we get back home."

"I bet you boys are ready to go," Sheriff Singer says as he turns the cruiser onto Fieldstown Road, bringing the farmhouse into view.

"_Ready to go_ was about three days ago, Sheriff," Sam says, already imagining the feel of the warm Californian sun. "No offense," he quickly adds, not wanting to offend the Sheriff.

Sheriff Singer simply laughs, waving a hand in Sam's direction. "None taken, I assure you. It'll be nice for things to settle back down. Angry militiamen and bombs aren't really my cup of tea, and if I'm being honest, the last few days have been nothing but one disaster after the other. No offense."

"None taken," Callen tells him, mimicking the man's earlier sentiment. As they pull into the driveway of the borrowed farmhouse, Callen honestly wouldn't blame the Sheriff for wanting them gone. Deputies had boarded up the windows and front door, blocking the interior of the house from the wind and snow. The banister is destroyed, the sidings and walls riddled with bullet holes. It's a good thing Sheriff Singer has that pretty sweet backroom at the station, because there's no way anyone would be living in this house for a while.

"Well, ain't that a site," the Sheriff says as he climbs out of the car. "Lets get in there and see what we can find."

Sam and Callen follow him around back, entering the house through the back kitchen door. The house is still a mess, the destroyed books and furniture still lying about just as Callen had last seen it. The only difference being that the power's back on and the body's gone.

The mattresses are still lying by the fireplace, the pillows and comforters tossed about. Walking into Kensi and Deeks' room, the one that usually belongs to Sheriff Singer's grandsons, Callen sees that the militiamen had been thorough in their search. Both Kensi and Deeks duffle bags had been emptied, the contents strewn about the room, blending with broken action fingers and shattered glass.

"Hetty owes me big," Sheriff Singer mutters under his breath. Callen turns to find the man standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips in that crooked stance Callen suspects the Sheriff inherited from watching too many westerns growing up. He looks sad and worn, like the last few days have finally caught up with him now that he's taken the time to stop and look around.

"Sorry about this Sheriff," Callen says again, already knowing the man's going to tell him it wasn't his fault. In a way, Callen isn't so sure.

"Ah, Son. I've already told you, wasn't nothing you or your team did," Sheriff Singer says, just as expected. "It was that damned Jett Hawkins and his crew." The Sheriff shakes his head and purses his lips, making his mustache bounce.

Not knowing what else to say, Callen bends and picks up one of the duffle bags, frowning when he notices the bullet hole. Deeks and Kensi's clothes are spread out over the floor and the bare box-spring from Deeks' bed. Not even looking to see what belongs to who, Callen grabs them all and stuffs them in the bags, figuring he'll leave it to Kensi and Deeks to sort out when they get back home. After all, between Kensi's leg and Deeks' ear, it'll be a while before they're back at work.

"G, you almost done?" Sam asks. Callen zips the bags closed, before giving the room one last look around. There's something inherently wrong about seeing bullet holes and toys in the same place.

"Yeah, lets get out of here."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Kensi starts the game over, already knowing that the little bird isn't going to land anywhere near the stupid pig, she can tell by the angle of the arc. She hates losing, hates wasting time. It's why she starts over every time defeat is in sight, because defeat isn't an option.

The phone is propped on her bent knee, her left leg stretched out straight, propped high on pillows. Every time she moves to send a bird into flight, her elbow bumps into Deeks' back.

She's lying on the edge of the hospital bed, as close to the edge as she can get without falling off. At some point in time while she was getting dressed to leave the clinic, Deeks had claimed the right side of the small bed. She doesn't know whether or not he had intended to fall asleep, but as soon as she hobbled out of the bathroom, she had found him zonked out. He's lying on his side, his back facing her. His legs are hanging off the edge, his feet on the ground as though he had sat down and simply fallen to the side, one arm circling around the pillow while the other hangs towards the floor.

Feeling he's deserved a little rest, rather than pushing him off and demanding he take advantage of the cot Grizz had placed in her room, Kensi had decided to let him stay.

Why she climbed in bed with him, she doesn't know. When the doctor had walked in, brow arched in silent question, she had used her leg as an excuse, telling him that the cot's too low to the ground, that it's too much trouble getting up and down.

He hadn't said anything, just gathered the pillows from the cot, and placed them below her left knee, relieving some of the pressure on her thigh.

Now, watching the little blue bird split into three, her elbow meeting his shoulder blade, Kensi thinks she has a better idea of why she hasn't woken him up, why she isn't complaining that he's gotten the right side of _her_ hospital bed.

The entire time they had been gone, leaving her alone with nothing more than Sheriff Singer and good old morphine for company, her mind had taken control, her imagination taunting her as one worst case scenario flitted by right after another.

Nothing in this case had gone right. Every turn had been met with some whacked out psycho with an axe to grind. Between shotguns, demented cheese graters, and frozen ponds, Kensi's a little surprised they're leaving Montana in as good a shape as they are.

She had been asleep when Sheriff Singer got the call about the explosion at the Governor's mansion. She remembers hearing the phone ring, vaguely remembers hearing him answer. She was just about to go back to sleep when she felt the air in the room shift, the way it does when you can tell someone's lying, when you know that something bad has happened.

Her fears were only founded when she opened her eyes to see the Sheriff looking at her worriedly, his voice lowered as he tried to sneak out of the room. It wasn't until she had convinced him to give her the phone, until she heard Sam's voice telling her that they were all okay that the image of them broken and scattered had gone away.

Feeling the pressure of Deeks lying beside her, the way his shoulder rises and falls with each breath, it gives her a sense of calm, a sense of 'everything's okay'. The boys are back, they're packing up, and soon, they'll all be heading home.

"Can you keep still?"

Kensi doesn't jump, but the sound of his hoarse voice startles her enough that she accidentally presses the screen, the little bird flying off in the wrong direction. Time to restart.

"I thought you were asleep," she says, adjusting her arm so it doesn't hit him. When he doesn't respond, she looks down and spots the tuft of white poking out from his ear. Rolling her eyes, she elbows him—not hard, just enough to get his attention.

"Hmm?" he asks, rolling onto his back and turning his good ear towards her.

"I said I thought you were sleeping," she repeats, her eyes glancing over the cuts and scrapes before falling back to her game.

"I was," he tells her. "But you keep hitting me."

"Please, I barely touched you," she says loud enough for him to hear.

"Alright you two, play nice," Grizz warns with another of his crinkly-eyed smiles. He's carrying two small white bags in his hands.

Kensi puts her phone down, and meets the man's warm eyes. "We always play nice."

Grizz laughs then, throwing his head back and shaking it slightly. "I'm sure you do," he assures them, sneaking Kensi a little wink. "If what I've seen over the last few days is anything to judge by." He softens his smile and pulls the small rolling tray in front of him. Back to business.

"Alright," he begins dumping the contents of the two small bags onto the table. Several orange pill bottles roll out, their contents rattling about as he quickly catches them from rolling off the table. "Since it seems none of you can do anything without causing injury, I figured I'd do us both a favor and save you a little time and possible stitches."

Deeks slowly sits up, tiredly rubbing the sleep from one eye as the other studies the doctor.

"Now, three of these are for you," Grizz says, pointing to Kensi and separating the bottles baring her name. "And these are for your partner." Grizz looks to Deeks and shakes the bottle of antibiotics.

The doctor keeps his focus on his two patients, offering a quick nod to Callen when the agent walks in before returning to his lecture. "These drops are for your ear," Grizz tells Deeks, shaking the small container and pointing to his own ear.

Deeks nods and tries to ignore Callen's subtle laugh. He's not completely deaf, there's no need for all the dramatics. Well, mostly not.

"And you," Grizz says, suddenly turning his attention to Callen, forcing the man to hide his mocking smile, "I expect you to make sure they do as they've been told. It's not going to do anyone any good if they don't take their medicine and take it easy."

Callen nods, forcing his expression to match the doctor's serious tone. "I'll make sure," he promises, catching Kensi's slight smile. It's safe to say that none of them have ever met a doctor like Grizz. While they've been in and around hospitals more than they'd care to admit, most of the doctors they've met have been detached and procedural, par for the course in big city hospitals. Grizz, well, he's unique.

"Where's Agent Hanna?" Grizz asks, putting the pills back in their bags now that his duty as physician has been taken care of.

Callen jerks his chin towards the door, indicating outside. "He's on his way. He's helping the Sheriff load everything into our truck."

Grizz nods and hands Callen the two bags of prescriptions. "It's been nice meeting you, Agents," he says, shaking Callen's hand. "All of you," he adds, turning to Kensi and Deeks.

"It's been nice meeting you, too Doc." Callen returns the handshake. "Although I wish it had been under better circumstances."

"We always wish that," Grizz says, gently slapping Callen on the shoulder.

"Tell Marta we said thanks," Deeks adds as the doctor opens the door. "Not for the whole broomstick thing, but for everything else, tell her we said thanks."

Grizz laughs, that full laugh they had all heard once before. "Will do, Detective," he promises. "And y'all take care," he says as he closes the door.

Callen sets the two small bags on the table before bending and retrieving Kensi's shoes from the floor. "You two as ready to go home as I am?" he asks, setting the shoes by Kensi's hip before turning and sitting on the edge of the forgotten cot.

"I never wanted to come here in the first place," Deeks admits, standing and stretching. He tries to pop his back, the crack of vertebrae sending shivers up Kensi's spine.

She eases the first shoe onto her right foot, not even bothering to untie it, simply slipping it in, using her finger to hold the heel as she presses down into the mattress, forcing her foot in place. She grabs the second shoe and frowns, already knowing there's no way she's bending her leg enough to get her shoe on.

Before she has a chance to try and formulate a plan, Deeks grabs her left shoe and begins to untie the laces. "We've been shot at, blown up, and insulted," he says, continuing to answer Callen's question, acting as though he doesn't notice Kensi's questioning stare as he picks up her foot and eases the shoe in place. "Except for some pretty awesome potpie, and a helicopter ride, there isn't anything about the last week I wouldn't mind forgetting."

Kensi decides the best way not to be embarrassed about having her partner put her shoe on for her is to pretend as though nothing's wrong. So, ignoring the fact that Deeks is pulling her sock up, insuring there are no wrinkles around her arch, she leans her head back on the pillow and shares her opinion. "I wish I could start this whole thing over. Go back and do it all right."

"I don't," Deeks quickly says, tightening the laces on her shoe. "I wish things could have gone better, but still…there's no way I'd want to repeat this last week, even in a do-over."

"I have to agree with Deeks," Callen says, watching as Deeks runs the rabbit around the tree. "I know things could have gone better, but…we're all walking away from this, the bad guys are stopped—I call this a win."

"Silver lining speech again?" Sam asks from the doorway, smiling at Callen as he leans on the handles of a wheelchair. "How many times are you going to repeat that today?"

"I listen to you give your healthy living speech at least three times a week, and you're giving me flak for saying something twice?" Callen questions as he stands, leveling his partner with an indignant stare.

"Being healthy is a lifestyle, G," Sam defends. "It requires constant reminders, especially when it comes to you."

"And so does positive thinking," Callen tells him, ignoring the jibe. "As team leader, it's my job to make sure my team members are mentally well-adjusted."

"And how's that working for ya?" Kensi asks, biting her lip as Sam and Deeks help her into the wheel chair.

Callen stops mid-reach for the crutches on the wall, turning so he can see Kensi's mocking smile. "You do realize that by insinuating I'm doing a bad job, that you're actually saying none of you are mentally well-adjusted?"

Kensi tilts her head and raises a finger, pulling on her defensive stance as she closes her eyes and smiles. "That's not what I meant," she says.

"Go easy on her, Callen. The drugs have made her loopy," Deeks says as he grabs the handles on the wheelchair.

Deeks doesn't hear Kensi's softly spoken, "You're loopy." Kensi and Deeks lead the way, Sam and Callen following after, each of them ready to go home, to put Montana and her snow covered landscapes behind in favor of skyscrapers and sun-soaked beaches.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

The difference between Los Angeles and Montana is dramatically noticed the moment they step off the plane. Despite the air-conditioning running through LAX, the absence of sub-freezing temperatures is all too noticeable, especially as they're all still dressed for snow.

Deeks quickly pulls off his outer shirt, reveling in the sensation of heated skin meeting a cool breeze. The warm sun shining through the large windows is more than welcomed, and Deeks suddenly has the desire to lie down and soak it in.

A soft slap to his arm has him spinning around, forcing him to grab on to Sam when his equilibrium decides to fail. _Stupid inner-ear_…

He smiles when his dizzy eyes land on a familiar site. Hetty is standing at their gate, patiently waiting, her hands crossed behind her back, her head held high.

"Hetty, what are you doing here?" Sam asks, his hands full of duffle bags.

"I came to escort you home," she says, sounding offended that it was asked. "Unless of course, you_ wanted_ to take a cab."

"Of course not, Hetty," Sam quickly tells her. "We appreciate it. We just didn't expect you to be here, is all."

Hetty slowly nods her head once, her mouth pursed as she considers his answer. She looks at each member of her team, cataloguing the injuries she sees, imagining the ones she can't. They aren't the only ones who are happy the case is over. She had been a nervous wreck the moment she sent them off, her mind creating scenarios of varying degrees of disaster, most of which proved to be mild when compared with the reality her agents actually faced.

Yes, she's definitely glad to have them home. But, there are still questions that need to be answered.

"Would any of you mind explaining to me how not one, but two houses were destroyed during the course of your investigation, one of them belonging to the Governor?" Hetty asks, looking from one face to another.

Her normally outspoken team is suddenly rendered silent, each nervously looking to the other, waiting for someone to speak up.

"Go on, G," Sam says after a few tense moments, nudging Callen's shoulder with his own. "Tell her about the silver lining."

Callen levels his partner with a hateful glare, making it clear he does not appreciate the betrayal.

"Yes, Mr. Callen. Tell me."

Callen turns back to face his boss, his mouth opening in preparation to deliver the well-used '_what happened was…'_ explanation.

Halfway through deflecting blame and explaining the workings of a slip joint hinge, Callen rocks back on his heels and simply enjoys the feeling of being home.

The End.


End file.
